


Subterranean Homesick Alien

by TheW0rldAsSeenInBaybayin



Series: Subterranean Homesick Alien [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Action, Adventure, Attempt at Humor, Cameos, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Children, Children of Characters, Epic, Epic Battles, Established Relationship, Fantasy, Flirting, Gen, Historical References, Humor, Interrogation, Language, Orynth, Post-Canon, Prime Directive (Star Trek), References to Canon, Sarcasm, Science Fiction, Snark, Starship Enterprise (Star Trek), Sword Fighting, Tension, Terrasen, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheW0rldAsSeenInBaybayin/pseuds/TheW0rldAsSeenInBaybayin
Summary: Years after Maeve’s death, what should have been an ordinary survey mission quickly devolves into a race against time to save the Prime Directive before it’s too late...
Relationships: Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Rowan Whitethorn, Chaol Westfall/Yrene, Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre, Manon Blackbeak/Dorian Havilliard, William Riker & Deanna Troi
Series: Subterranean Homesick Alien [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825486
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Life in a Glasshouse

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Anything that sounds familiar isn't mine. TOG and Star Trek are owned by Sarah J. Maas and CBS Studios respectively.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A regular jaunt around Orynth leads into an encounter with an unusual, very unhuman-like person who can nonchalantly brush aside a dagger embedded in his abdomen…

The gong of the temple bell reverberated across the city of Orynth as the sun emerged from the horizon, marking the start of another day. Like an orchestra starting a tune, each instrument began a distinct, melodious motif as every man, Fae, and animal rose from their slumber and brought their own sounds to the music—the bellow of a mother at an irascible child, the yowl of a hound demanding his meal, and the hubbub of conversation between lords and ladies, guards and servants, and merchants and peasants in anticipation of the day ahead. 

And so Aelin Galanthynius, Queen of Terrasen, arose from her slumber to the sound of her land awakening.

The first thing she saw was the man slumped on the bed beside her—a vast, muscular Fae with thick tufts of white hair and intricate facial tattoos. Blinking at the sight, an evil smirk crept upon her lips as she recalled the previous night—a rowdy, raucous evening of drinks, dancing, party games, fighting, and gods-knew-what within the halls of the Royal Palace. Taking a moment to feast at the sight of Rowan’s bare chest, Aelin rose from their four-poster bed and walked towards the bathroom, where a steaming tub of water had been prepared the night before. As Rowan continued to snore, his _carranam_ bathed with only her own thoughts for company.

Nothing extraordinary or special within the week's schedule, Aelin recalled—a meeting with the Lords of Terrasen over some mundane economic policy (ugh), a three hour religious ceremony at the temple after lunch to bless the kingdom's crops (bleaugh), and what would likely be a long, dreary, and largely uneventful court for the rest of the day (moan). More or less the same thing the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after _that,_ Aelin reckoned; was there anything particularly _important_ to look forward to?

Oh yes, a standoff with the watchmakers' guild over some obscure tax revenue bill. The queen groaned; another day, another crisis.

What happened to all her bold proposals for reshaping Terrasen for the better? The Lords of Terrasen had gotten unusually scrupulous when it came to enacting her projects and reforms—it had been five years since Maeve got skewered on Goldryn, but to Aelin it felt like twenty since she had last heard from Darrow over the last policy she floated to him. Appointing someone else to do the job for her had been no more productive, considering how they themselves kept disappearing and winding up dead outside the city walls; nowadays an assignment by the queen was often viewed by lords, merchants, and commoners alike as a death sentence—a cursed task, it was often called—and one to be accepted only by the most determined—or foolish.

The queen considered the problem as she emerged from the bath and wrapped a warm towel around her, stealing one long, salacious look at Rowan’s slumped form—still snoring—before walking into the closet on his side. Rowan had been quite a source of comfort after the many setbacks, but Aelin thought even he deserved a break from time to time.

The walk-in closet was a large yet cramped space of clothes, outfits, and dresses—a row of mannequins were prominently displayed at the center and took up an entire wall, all dressed in Aelin's favorite outfits through the years. There was her old suit of armor, a golden-plated layer of Damascus steel with ornate flourishes and trimmings and a flowing blue fabric tied to the waist. At its side was a grey undershirt with a pair of ripped jeans and a loose belt, topped with a maroon shawl. Directly opposite was a form-fitting black suit with elaborate scales and carved spirals, enclosed with a majestic burgundy cloak and cape; beside it was an indigo shirt enclosed in charcoal plates and a teal scarf and dress.

But at the center of the row of fabric statues was the young Fae’s most treasured attire, carefully maintained through the years—a florid violet cloak upon a black jacket; ragged, Stygian pantaloons, and a greying shirt underneath. A memento from her time as Celaena Sardothien, Aelin wasn’t averse to occasionally donning the outfit and strolling around town, pretending she was eighteen again and venturing into the many parts of Orynth her position as Queen of Terrasen traditionally prohibited her from thoroughly exploring. That, and the disguise often helped her rat out whatever plots and schemes the nobility and underground elements were planning this time—apparently entire valleys of kingsflame blooming each year had hardly been enough to persuade the entirety of Erilea of her legitimacy and authority.

The young Fae turned towards the side of the room where all her own weapons were arranged on the wall, and spotted the accompanying weapons to Celeana’s clothes: a pair of curved knives that seamlessly transitioned from handle to blade. Aelin’s eyes traced the embossed spirals on the hilts as her right hand reached for her chin, gently rubbing it in thought. An idea came to the young Queen’s mind, and a grin emerged on her face. 

Screw them all. _She_ needed a break, and Terrasen and its noisy lords and merchants could wait.

* * *

Rowan's eyes slowly opened, and widened upon seeing the empty space before him. A narrow depression on the bed was the only hint that a young Fae woman slept by his side as his wife and mate; getting up from the four-poster bed, as he reached for a discarded shirt on the floor he nervously scanned the room for any indication of her current whereabouts. He knew the castle guards were among the best in Terrasen, and he recalled his _carranam_ was more than capable of holding her own. Yet he nevertheless worried; it seemed Aelin's penchant for trouble hadn't died along with Celaena Sardothien all those years ago.

Aelin's clothes had been unceremoniously dropped on the study table, and a somewhat damp bathrobe was hanging on the hat rack—the woman had obviously been bathing, but a peek into the bathroom revealed no one. Rowan was becoming increasingly unnerved; he didn't know where his wife was, and he hated it when he didn't know. Knowing was half the battle of maintaining his sanity whenever dealing with his wife; Aelin could be in mortal danger for all he knew, but by confirming for himself Aelin _was_ in danger he could then actually _do_ something about it. That, and he could have a lengthy discussion with her afterwards about whatever crazy stunt she pulled off this time. Preferably with a large pint of beer and a stone wall to bang his head onto, thank you very much.

The queen's consort entered the walk-in closet, where an unusual detail caught his attention: one of the mannequins along the wall had been stripped of its garments and now stood naked before the male Fae. Rowan quickly recalled the garments in question—purple shawl, black pants and shirt—and whirled to the adjacent wall as a nagging suspicion began to grow in his head. 

His hunch was right; a pair of identical daggers was missing from Aelin's private armory. Something clicked in the back of his head; Rowan smiled, shaking his head at Aelin's latest shenanigans as he looked out the window into the distant sky.

She would be back, later in the evening.

* * *

_Space, the final frontier..._

* * *

_Captain’s Log, Stardate 49927.5, Captain Jean-Luc Picard recording._

_It’s been well over a month into the_ Enterprise’s _maiden voyage, but for many aboard it still feels like we’ve just left the shipyards at Utopia Planitia. The loss of the_ Enterprise’s _predecessor above Veridian III and the subsequent departure of many of our best officers still weighs heavily on our minds, but with the passing of time all wounds will eventually heal. For now, we will adjust, endure, and welcome the new additions to our crew aboard the_ Enterprise, _NCC-1701-E._

_Our first mission: to escort, accompany, and assist a team of scientists in a one-week survey mission on the M-class planet MAA-58143._

“Why haven’t we explored this planet before?” asked Commander William Riker. 

The Enterprise’s senior staff were assembled in the observation lounge as part of a briefing on the assignment at hand; along with the scientific mission, they were seated around a glowing, rectangular table that was littered with PADDs and cylindrical glasses of varying drinks and beverages. Standing beside a large wall monitor in front of them was Lieutenant Commander Data, who turned to reply.

“A Terran colony ship called the _Inferno_ was sent to the planet during the early days of the Federation. Contact was lost almost immediately after their arrival in the system, and efforts to locate and assist them were lost in bureaucracy after the Earth-Romulan War.

“In 2253 on the Gregorian calendar, the _Shenzhou_ under Captain Philippa Georgiou was eventually dispatched, but discovered several other native species already inhabited the planet and were in direct conflict with the colonists’ descendants over the land. By then the human population had been fully assimilated into the local environment, preventing _Shenzhou_ from intervening as per stated in the Prime Directive. Since then, the planet has been for the most part left alone in an effort to minimise any further cultural contamination, although survey, scientific, and anthropological missions have been allowed from time to time.”

“What about the Maas phenomenon?” asked Commander Deanna Troi. “I’ve heard about it regarding the planet, but I don’t quite understand what it is exactly.”

“When _Shenzhou_ arrived on the planet, they found no surviving, record, trace, or memory of the original colony, and the oldest records they found indicated the presence of humans and Terran ecology dated back at least several thousand years before Zefram Cochrane.”

“Hence the Maas phenomenon,” Troi remarked. The android nodded.

“There have been numerous hypotheses circulating through scientific circles attempting to explain the phenomenon, but there has been minimal evidence of any kind to support any single theory. Along with standard protocol for survey and anthropological missions, an additional key objective was the pursuit of further evidence to provide a valid and accurate explanation.

“Approximately fifteen years ago, however, a local state called the Kingdom of Adarlan launched a brutal series of military campaigns, committing war crimes and widespread genocide against its neighbors, in effect erasing most of the planet’s heritage. The major loss of scientific and cultural data, combined with the increased risk of discovery prevented missions such as these from taking place ever since.”

One of the scientists present—a Vulcan female named Valek—added. “This will be the first opportunity to see the extent of the damage to the cultures of MAA-58143, and to assess the current political and social situation on the surface. Maas is known throughout the scientific community for its unusual diversity of flora and fauna, competing with the Xindi for the largest number of intelligent, sentient species on a single planet. Their complete and total eradication would be a significant setback to our efforts and mourned by many.”

“The Wyverns and Ruks look rather impressive based on our records, and I look forward to seeing them in person,” admitted Picard from the side of the table. “It would indeed be a shame if they were rendered extinct by the war.”

“Sensors indicate the presence of both species in Rifthold, the capital of Adarlan,” replied Data. “We might have a chance to view them when we visit the settlement.”

“Are the medical vaccines and cosmetic disguises ready for distribution, Doctor Crusher?” asked the captain.

“Yes, Captain,” Commander Beverly Crusher nodded in confirmation. “I will be accompanying you in the fourth away mission, as I intend to examine the records of the Torre Cesme for medical procedures we could adapt in the field.”

Picard thoughtfully nodded in approval, before turning to the scientists present. “What is your planned schedule for this project?” 

A human male of British descent named Jon replied, “Orynth, the capital of Terrasen, will be first on our timetable, where we will confirm reports of the Royal Library’s destruction and search for any surviving artifacts. The majority of the library’s contents were saved in the Federation database before Adarlan’s armies reached the capital, but there are some works that have yet to be recovered. The Royal Palace and other major buildings will also be surveyed and analysed, and compared to observations prior to the invasion.”

The Vulcan continued, “We will then move south of the continent in the following days towards Melisandre and Eyllwe before exploring Briarcliff and Yurpa and scouring Antica, Balruhn and Tigana. As our final stop, Wendlyn has been notably difficult to observe in the past without being spotted by the locals, and additional measures will be required beforehand.”

Riker nodded. “If you need any additional assistance, feel free to inform us anytime.”

“It will be appreciated,” Jon replied in acknowledgement.

For the mission to Orynth, Jon and Valek were selected to beam down to the surface. They were to be accompanied by Data, Riker, and three other security officers for protection; after donning their disguises they assembled at Transporter Room Three; Commander Troi and Picard were there to wish them luck.

“We’re not entirely certain as to what exactly’s happening on the surface, and in an emergency it’s possible we may have to beam back immediately,” Riker stated. 

Picard nodded. “We’ll be keeping a permanent transporter lock to be safe, but you’ll need to be in a secure location away from prying eyes. The last thing we need is a repeat of Mintaka III.”

A grin emerged from Riker’s beard. “You still haven’t gotten over that, Captain?” 

Troi grinned and Data nodded thoughtfully, fondly recalling the utter discomfort in the captain’s face upon finding he was worshipped by the pre-warp Mintakans as the Overseer. The “Picard” had obviously refused to accept their veneration, attempting to demonstrate his lack of divinity and power—he had gotten an arrow on his shoulder for his troubles, an experience he was not altogether eager to repeat.

The Overseer glared at his subjects. “Just keep to the Prime Directive, Will.” Confirming that the away team stood alert on their places atop the transporter pad, Picard signalled to the transporter chief, "Energise.”

A blue, unearthly glow shimmered around the members of the team as they disappeared from the room and rematerialized onto the surface.

* * *

For the first time in quite a while, Aelin felt free as she walked across the roofs of Orynth in her disguise.

The Queen could smell the fresh air of the town as the morning breeze gently rushed by, cooling her as it flowed through her garments. Her nose registered the smell of oak wood from the harbor and spices from the market below her, and the hubbub of sounds indicated the square was already bustling with people hawking their wares or bargaining for others. Aelin perched herself on the side of the town hall’s spire—a towering structure covered with ornate stone carvings and sculptures of important figures and deities from years long past—and observed the people walking around the rectangular town square, eavesdropping on their conversations with her heightened sense of hearing. 

A grey-haired male with faded, dark green garments was selling crates of fruits and vegetables, while a trio of colorfully dressed clowns performed a notoriously difficult fire juggling act before an entranced crowd. A throng of finely dressed women harangued a beleaguered shop owner for news of a shipment of perfume from the south (Aelin made a mental reminder to pay a visit later) while their servants flirted with the barmaids in the neighbouring pub. Aelin was observing a bard busking beside a streetlamp when she came across an odd crowd of four men and three women mingling together, discreetly trying not to attract attention to themselves—she could tell, having done such herself in her days as an assassin. 

Not that she did it often; when she took out her targets she _wanted_ the world to know it was Arobynn’s Assassin who did the job and no one else—everyone lucky enough to witness the aftermath usually got the message.

A bright-skinned male with ruffled, greying hair and a thick beard led the group, followed by a woman with pointed ears—Fae? Aelin wondered—a spectacularly short haircut and a stone-faced expression, and flanked by a male with an equally blasé face and neatly-trimmed hair, who moved with precision to a fault. Behind them their companions—a motley of humans with nothing particularly significant or attention-grabbing—walked closely behind, trying not to get separated among the crowd. What brought Aelin’s attention were their garments: the strangers wore clothes fashionable long before Erawan reared his ugly head—almost fifteen years back—yet they appeared to have been freshly woven and embroidered within the month. The Fae adjusted her hearing to focus on the three leading figures, who appeared to be in a deep discussion.

“...sensors indicate the library was destroyed shortly after the last mission left the planet, and our analysis has confirmed that there are no remaining objects of interest among the ruins or in the city.”

“Looks like Adarlan was all too thorough in its purges,” the bearded man commented. 

_You think?_ Aelin thought. The female turned to reply.

“Based on what we’ve discerned from the locals, about three years ago the King of Adarlan was deposed by his son, who was an acquaintance of the current Queen of Terrasen. With her leadership, they then successfully fought a war against the former king’s supporters and a third party attempting to usurp the throne. The kingdoms of Erilea are now independent, but most of the damage has yet to be repaired.”

“Apart from the destruction of the library and the academy in the city’s outskirts, most of the key buildings in Orynth have been either left unscathed or are being reconstructed and rehabilitated,” interjected another bright-skinned male with an unusually sharp accent. “With this in mind, I would estimate at least roughly three more hours would be sufficient to get a full analysis of the city before returning to the _Enterprise.”_

As the four figures began debating the merits of splitting up, the Fae shifted on her seat on the roof, processing what she had just heard. Judging by their critically outdated information, these people clearly weren’t from Erliea, the Southern Continent, or Wendlyn: everyone within the three regions would have known the events of the last fifteen years. Were they from another land beyond her knowledge, or part of something more insidious? Aelin decided to keep an eye on the travellers and find the _Enterprise_ (rather odd name for a vessel) at the docks at dusk before returning to the Palace. Noticing the small group was starting to move again, she refocused her hearing on the discussion below as she prepared to change positions.

“...then Commander Data and Lieutenant Musiker will escort Valek back to the library ruins, while we move towards the Guildhall."

Commander? Lieutenant? Those were military ranks; was another kingdom sending spies for an invasion of Terrasen? Such an assumption would make sense considering their interest in Orynth, but surely they recognised the folly of going up against a powerful and deadly fire-wielding monarch who had defeated the King of Adarlan and Queen of Doranelle in combat, no less. Not to mention a queen who had an indomitable group of allies from across the continent, ready to defend one of their own. 

A coup? Aelin could think of a few suspects, but even the most treasonous Lord of Terrasen could recite a basic summary of the history of Erliea from memory. Conquerors from another dimension like the Valg? The Queen did _not_ want to think of the implications; her time with Erawan and Maeve was still a searing pain in the back of her mind, even as she recalled their permanent, irretrievable deaths.

Brushing the dark memory aside, Aelin quietly trailed Valek the Fae and the human named Data (odd name), who were moving towards the western end of the town square towards a narrow yet crowded alley that ran along the side of the town hall. Unencumbered by the hordes milling below, the woman could quickly overtake her two targets through the roofs and balconies of the shophouses, watching with amusement as they struggled to make headway through the thick crowd of humans and Fae. 

After almost five minutes, they were only halfway towards the end of the passageway when Data spotted a narrower yet less crowded alley, gesturing to his companion. The two then disappeared into the street—just as Aelin had anticipated.

* * *

Data’s ears contained several state-of-the art audio receptors, which allowed him to detect noises as minute as a needle dropping in a Terran heavy metal concert. As he, Lieutenant Musiker, and Valek walked through the narrow alleyway towards the main street, he could faintly hear someone’s footsteps on the roofs of the buildings to his flank. 

But there were countless life forms within the stores and houses, so he chose to ignore it.

* * *

The town hall of Orynth and its main square lay beside a major thoroughfare, weaving from the outskirts of the city—onwards to Adarlan—to the barbicans of the old town, located atop a small plateau. The city’s oldest segment apart from the Royal Palace itself (which lay on the edge of a great cliff alongside the mountains), the aged stone buildings competed with the Fae in age, and the streets were only wide enough for three carts laid side to side—perfect for a chase and a confrontation, if matters came to a head. 

As her quarry reached the vast stone entrance along the city wall and walked into the aged district, Aelin swiftly made her way down to the street and followed in pursuit, nodding to the guards as they recognised their Queen under the disguise. On a similar jaunt during her early days as monarch of Terrasen, one of the soldiers had mistaken her for some waif and attempted to reach for her rear; had it not been for the timely intervention of a more observant guard, her cover would have been blown and the offending hand amputated. 

The scumbag now hung on a gibbet at the docks as a warning to all, while his companion guarded the royal quarters themselves. The guards assigned to their former post now kept an eye out for the woman in purple whenever she passed by.

Turning round a corner into a sparsely occupied street, Aelin reached for a ladder on the side and hastened with a flourish onto the roof of a stone apartment. Her trek was much more treacherous than in the newer districts, the buildings in Orynth’s nascent years taller, loftier, and ambitious, constantly shifting in size and height. At times the Fae had to leap to the adjacent building or vault her way above the street using the innumerous laundry lines and bridges weaving across; this pattern continued for several minutes. 

Aelin lunged through the air towards a facade when her right hand suddenly lost its grip on the edge; a searing pain shot through her other hand as it strained to keep her from falling three stories to an unceremonious end. The woman dangled precariously over the edge as she processed what had just happened, then reached with her right hand for another grip. With a great push, Aelin vaulted over the facade—but the stone front, unable to handle the strain of her efforts, cracked and collapsed. The Fae winced as time slowed to a crawl; the people below scrambled away from the falling debris as it hurtled onto the ground, exploding and disintegrating into thousands of minuscule particles in a deafening crash. Data quickly turned his head up to where the debris originated, but the young queen had quickly moved out of sight. 

The android frowned, thinking very carefully.

Using a supercomputer inside his head, Data began analysing all the sensory input he received within the last hour towards their last encounter with the rest of the away team, inspecting every sound, sight, and smell for any common patterns. Such a task would have daunted even the most lucid Vulcan, but within 3.4 seconds he had isolated a single pair of footsteps—

—the very same set he had detected at the start of their journey from the square—

—and by switching to infrared vision spotted and identified their pursuer: a young female of the Fae species on the roof, currently hiding behind what remained of the facade. 

Data turned to his companions. “I believe we are being followed. We must find a secure location and return to the _Enterprise.”_

Crap, she had been found out. Muttering to herself, she rapidly recalled all the routes from her location to the docks, determining all the possible chokepoints for her to confront her prey. Reaching for her daggers in her holsters to reaffirm to herself they were still there, Aelin began to gently tread across the roofs once more as Data, Valek, and the third person began walking at a brisker pace. So far, so good; only an intersection between two major alleyways lay ahead. As long as they didn’t split up—

“It would be logical for us to split up at the next intersection to confuse our pursuers and increase the likelihood of a successful escape.”

Damn it.

Data quickly responded, “That is an excellent suggestion. Lieutenant, escort Valek to the side street two blocks after turning right and contact the _Enterprise_ for an emergency transport. Inform them of our present situation and order Riker to evacuate the second team if necessary. I will remain to handle the threat and buy you time.” The ensign and Vulcan nodded in acknowledgment and hurried into the other street, while the android turned to the corner of a prominent building and gazed at the very edge of the roof where he suspected their pursuer lay in anticipation.

Aelin now faced a dilemma: deal with the human male and lose precious time to catch the other two characters, or run after Valek, revealing herself to Data in the process? Judging by his stature, the human didn’t look much of a fighter and there weren’t any Valg rings or ornaments on him; he would probably go down in seconds going up against anyone with a tenth of her skill. Yet a public confrontation would likely expose her identity, putting a permanent end to her daily escapades. What about the other option? Valek appeared to be another Fae and could possibly be reasoned with if necessary, but if push came to shove Aelin would in all likelihood outmatch both Valek and the man accompanying her.

Who was she kidding? Aelin Fireheart, the Queen Who Was Promised, God Killer, Witch Slayer, Fire-Breathing Bitch Queen of the West, would in all likelihood outmatch all three spies if they came at her simultaneously with her bound on a chair without even a bread knife to defend herself with. The Fae smiled viciously and leapt off the roof in clear view of the people below, landing with a thud on the opposite building and dashing through the roofs in pursuit of the two fleeing figures.

In a room at the Royal Palace, Rowan shivered.

Determining the young woman was running at over twice the speed of a human athlete, Data began matching her pace, roughly shoving aside bystanders not quick enough to get out of the way. He turned his line of sight to the street ahead, spotting his two companions approaching the corner. Magnifying the image from his visual sensors, he could see Musiker communicating with the _Enterprise,_ already calling for an emergency transport. He looked back at the roof; the woman was not too far behind.

The Vulcan and human disappeared across the corner.

Aelin leapt across the street onto an adjacent building and dashed to the edge for a clear view.

The android approached the corner and skidded at the intersection before grinding to a halt, warily eyeing the alleyway as he walked in.

A row of wooden containers obscured Data’s vision. He slowly weaved his way around.

Apart from the crates, barrels, and other disused paraphernalia on the street, the place was empty save for two faint, blue hazes of light fading away. The pursuer was nowhere to be seen, and looking up revealed nothing. 

Behind Data came a soft rustling sound. He turned, only to find his arms pinned and a dagger held inches from his throat. A soft but steady feminine voice with nerves of steel whispered to his ear, “Make one wrong move and I’ll cut your throat.”

“That will not be necessary.” 

Before Aelin had a chance to respond, the human grappled his assailant by the thighs and hurled her over his shoulder, briefly glimpsing her slam backfirst onto a wall before scrambling towards the main street. The Fae lay stunned for a fraction of a second as she processed what had happened; she had _not_ expected that, and he had done it without any visible effort. Clearly there was much more to him than met the eye—all the better for her to kill him if it came to that.

Aelin snarled and leapt at the fleeing figure with frightening speed while her magic began healing her bruises, making faint glows on her body as she grappled with the being called Data. Yet she was perturbed at how heavy he was as she struggled in vain to topple him, carefully noting his lightning reflexes to her every move. The Fae began methodically analysing his movements for a weakness, and fingered her daggers as her blood began to boil.

This was getting annoying, and he needed to go down _now._

Sneering, Aelin immersed herself completely in her Fae form and soared with a battle cry onto Data, wrapping her legs around his neck. With a twist that would have incapacitated any human, she forced the man off his feet, hurling him into the ground.

Or rather, she found herself on the dirt-ridden cobblestones with an aching rear, the human standing in front of her with a pale expression on his face.

Bastard.

Aelin looked at her hands and quickly turned to her trousers, and realised they were stained with skin-colored paint. She turned to look at the male, and the color drained from her own skin.

His face didn’t appear pale, it _was_ pale. And there was only one species that Aelin knew was as deathly white as that. She didn’t know how, and there were no markings on him, but she knew it for what it was. Shock gave way to an icy, calm rage that meant death to those who saw it.

 _Valg_ bastard.

Aelin knew she should bring him to the palace to be treated and cured. But the memories of endless pain and torture were far too strong and came in a rush, clouding her judgement and overwhelming her with impotent fury.

With a frightening and frigid tone she snarled, “Tell Maeve or whatever Valg you serve in the realm of Hell that Erliea is forever closed to your kind.”

And so Aelin Fireheart lashed out with her dagger, stabbing him directly in the chest with a sickening crunch before he had even the time to respond. Taking the full force of her assault, Data was forced back several paces, staring in shock at the knife; the hilt had gone completely through his body, with the handle on one side and the tip of the blade emerging on the other.

A regular human would have had his aorta pierced and his heartbeat completely disrupted as the organ was cleanly bisected. With the drastic loss of blood flowing to the brain, it would no longer be able to function and command the vital organs, starting a cascade of critical failures as every part of the body spluttered, ceased, and died in a violent paroxysm of convulsions. For thirty seconds the Valg would be writhing in its death throes, and in a minute he would cease to move altogether, laying lifeless in a gushing fountain of red. 

But to Aelin’s astonishment, the Valg did not collapse or bleed—rather, he continued to stand erect, looking down at the dagger with a peculiar mixture of shock and...curiosity? 

The Fae was too stunned to react to the unlikely chain of events, and the two stood in the street in silence as an eternity seemed to pass by. Aelin took an uncertain step forwards—second dagger in hand—and the not-human, not-Valg turned his head up as if just remembering she was still there. He raised his eyebrows and said:

“Ow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Lord Darrow:** With all due respect, Your Highness, perhaps it would be in all possibility preferable to all affiliated parties that would be significantly affected by your proposal if this courageous and somewhat radical policy were to be first taken temporarily into consideration by a select group of qualified and experienced individuals as agreed upon by both Her Royal Highness and the Lords of Terra, peace be onto them, and then thoroughly analysed and reviewed by a committee within pre-specified parameters so as to ascertain that a smooth method of execution with minimal disruption to the countless organisations, bureaucracies, and governmental departments is achievable, so as to avoid the widespread chaos and disorder among the numerous denizens of the city of Orynth and the Kingdom of Terrasen and its administrative territories that I am particularly certain will follow as a result of the plans described in your documents “quietly” filed to my department at approximately 10:26 this morning.  
>  **Aelin:** _(irritated)_ Oh, just make it happen, will you?
> 
> I love _Yes, Minister._
> 
> Mintaka IV—TNG, “Who Watches the Watchers”


	2. You and Whose Army?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin wants answers. The Prime Directive won’t be giving her any.

Picard fought the urge to bury his face in his hand as he continued to process the magnitude of the disaster unfolding before him. He and his officers—and the scientists—were seated once more in the conference hall, although the mood in the air was significantly thicker and more serious, especially with the glaring absence of the _Enterprise_ ’s beloved android.

The captain was first to give voice to the elephant in the room: “How the hell was this able to happen?”

Commander Geordi La Forge—an African American with a growing beard and bionic eyes who served as the Enterprise’s chief engineer—was first to reply. “We’ve ruled out prior cultural contamination, as there weren’t any weapon signatures or foreign emissions detected on the surface throughout the initial foray or on any previous missions.”

“Couldn’t the locals have recently found traces of the original colony?” asked Riker.

Valek shook her head. “The wreckage of the colony ship and any surviving equipment were recovered by _Shenzhou_ during its time. I’ve also been informed beforehand that all previous missions thoroughly confirmed the origin of humans in the planet to be more or less unknown among the population. Assuming no other civilisation such as the Klingons, Romulans, Cardassians, or even the Dominion has directly interfered with the planet’s development, it would therefore be logical to believe this encounter was a mere coincidence; a side effect of the aftermath of the recent conflict.”

It would make sense, Picard thought, as he tried to picture himself in Terrasen’s shoes. Having just won a vicious, protracted war, they would hardly be caught with their trousers down after the countless, agonizing years of tyranny and persecution—even with those responsible having long been deposed, incarcerated, and killed for their crimes. It wasn’t a failure on the _Enterprise’s_ part to maintain standards, he realised: it was testimony to the locals’ paranoia.

Yet the potential damage from Data’s discovery was no less pressing, and time was of the essence. Picard returned to the matter at hand, “Where is Commander Data as of this moment?”

Lieutenant Padraig Daniels—a nervous, young human who had replaced Commander Worf as tactical and security officer after the _Enterprise-D_ ’s destruction—quickly responded, stumbling at times as he spoke. “He’s being held underneath the palace in a holding cell. We still have our transporter lock on him and could beam him aboard this instant.”

Geordi quickly and vehemently shook his head. “There are several lifeforms near him at the moment, suggesting he’s currently being observed and interrogated. The Prime Directive applies, preventing us from directly extracting him.”

“We also have to deliberate the long-term impact of simply transporting Commander Data from the Royal Palace,” Jon pointed out. “The Palace is one of the most secure facilities in the kingdom, and any security breach would result in an unprecedented national crisis for Terrasen. We could see additional soldiers and spies on the street, rendering any future missions in the nation all but impossible.”

“And considering Terrasen is on good terms with almost every other nation in Erliea, we could also see the same measures everywhere in that part of the planet,” Commander Troi added. “But on the other hand, if the people of Maas were to uncover Data’s real form and replicate the technology he contains…”

A heavy silence fell on the group, as many recalled the events of Sigma Iota II, the debacle of Ekos—the list went on. Riker stroked his beard as he carefully thought out the possible options.

“Suppose we were to contact the authorities at Terrasen in a clandestine manner and inform them of the nature of our presence there—”

“The Prime Directive may have been inadvertently violated, but that does not give us license to further abuse it.” Picard responded, the distasteful memories of Mintaka III resurfacing in his mind. Purging the thought from his mind, the captain continued, “If we are forced to reveal ourselves, let it be as a final resort, when all other options have been exhausted and are for naught. 

“Let’s take multiple approaches. Mr. La Forge, assemble an away team to the surface where the _Inferno_ crashed and confirm for yourself nothing remains on the surface. Number One, proceed to Orynth to further assess the situation and determine a possible way to free Commander Data. If push comes to shove, Messers Deacon and Valek, we may have to sacrifice your team’s long-term plans in order to maintain the Prime Directive.”

The scientists glumly eyed each other, while the officers shifted uneasily in their seats.

“As for the original assignment, you and your colleagues will be allowed to continue your research elsewhere, adjusting your schedule as you deem appropriate. Commanders Troi and Crusher will accompany you on future away missions as Starfleet’s representatives to your team until further notice. Does anyone have any other concerns?”

No one responded. There were no concerns, for a plan was at hand.

“Very well then, dismissed.”

* * *

Far below the Royal Palace, somewhere within the depths of the royal dungeons, three Fae stared in fascination at a pale figure from behind the railings of an iron cell door. The man—known only as Data—sat rigidly on a wooden stool in front of a moldy table, unmoving and expressionless as he had been for the past few hours now. The dagger was still embedded in his chest and could not be removed despite the efforts of several burly guards and the straining of two disgruntled Fae; the latter now stood before their Queen, trying to discern anything of value or interest from the not-human in his current state.

The youngest Fae shook his head and turned to his companions. “Nope, I’ve got nothing.”

Aelin rolled her eyes at Aedion. “Well, I don’t recognise him from anywhere either. I was hoping your somewhat more _extensive_ knowledge would get us somewhere.” Aedion momentarily glared at his cousin before turning to Rowan.

“I recognise the clothes—Rifthold funeral garments—but they’re far too new for their time. Apart from that, the only thing I can tell you is that he doesn’t seem to be any kind of creature we’ve ever encountered before,” Rowan replied. “Perhaps we could send a messenger to Dorian and ask him to investigate further—those clothes are from Adarlan, after all.”

“Figure some noble’s got the brilliant idea to go up in a one-man war against the entire Terrasen?” Aedion asked. “There _were_ plenty of pissed folks after the war ended; it _could_ be someone with revenge in mind.”

“We can’t jump to conclusions just yet, considering all we have is one not-human, not-Fae, not-witch, not-Valg in a cell,” Rowan remarked. “We could try talking to him.”

“Yeah, if he ever moves from his seat. I think he’s fallen asleep in there.”

Aelin was inclined to agree. It would indeed seem that way; Data’s droopy eyes constantly threatened to fall shut, yet the man was as alert as ever, seated upright against the backrest as if expecting a spirit or a ghost to materialize any second now. The Queen shook her head to clear her mind, turning to her two companions.

“No harm in asking, I suppose. We’re going inside, so shut up and stay behind me. And try to look intimidating when you walk in, will you?”

“I thought we already looked intimidating.”

“No, you both look more like bouncers than my prized guards.” 

Aedion rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, while Rowan gave that thin, teasing smile he gave his young wife now and then, whenever they had their little banters in the halls of the castle, in the privacy of their quarters, or out frolicking in the fields of Theralis with the rest of the Cadre. 

The loose expressions on their faces quickly disappeared, wiped off in favor of something more appropriate for an interrogation—a veneer of tranquility masking a black pool of malevolence within. Prisoners always instinctively smelled the malice within seconds of their first meeting; made them a lot more cooperative, although occasionally more drastic methods were required of the Wolf of the North and the Prince of Doranelle. Aelin was always disgruntled whenever that happened—charred corpses with shattered teeth were always _so_ difficult to understand.

Speeding up the interrogation process wasn’t their only purpose, however—a truth that everyone knew all too well. The fact that Aelin’s prized daggers had inexplicably failed to kill their prisoner had not gone unnoticed, and his ability to mimic and even surpass her fighting skills were rather concerning, to say the least.

Nodding to the guard posted at the cell, Aelin watched as he pulled out a small grey key and fumbled at the gate, pushing it open as he gently bowed to his queen. The door clanged shut behind them, and Data quickly turned his head to his visitors—a reaction, the Queen noted, the first they had ever gotten from him even since he was forcibly hurled into that miniscule granite cell. His yellow eyes remained focused on the woman as she faced and her guards flanked her rear, their gaze fixed on the stoic figure and the blade jutting out of his chest.

* * *

Terrasen’s security measures were particularly thorough, Data was forced to admit.

Upon capture, his vision had been obscured by a small leather sack placed on his head and his arms and legs restrained by a pair of iron chains within the cage of a firm metal carriage. Afterwards came a long, rough journey, punctuated by sounds of the city that was heard but could not be easily defined, before the sounds of guards and swords drowned out the rest and hinted at the site of his imminent incarceration.

He had arrived. 

After being whirled round a dozen times in a round of blind man’s bluff, he had been roughly dragged through a maze-like network of tunnels, travelling deeper through the passageway into the depths of the castle before being pushed into a small, damp cell with but a small hole on the wall to provide light. 

It was a rectangular room roughly half the size of a _Danube-_ class runabout, with large stone bricks on all four sides, an arched roof, and a floor adorned with straw and what Data suspected was a chamber pot on the corner. At the center were a wooden table and a pair of stools; directly opposite the pot was the cell door where a guard kept guard, while behind the android was a small grilled window opening up to what Data suspected was a small, unimportant back street within the city itself. 

Seating himself upon the stool, the android calculated the odds of himself fitting through the window to be somewhat high, but surmised the guard would first have to be incapacitated to avoid detection. A problematic task, bearing in mind that every movement he took was under the watch of some very wary eyes. 

Suppose he tried to escape through the hallways? Another possible route, assuming he could again steal the keys. Yet it would also give him the opportunity to recover his tricorder and combadge, allowing him to contact the _Enterprise_ and beam off the surface without escaping through the main entrance, yet the risk of running into any guards—or even worse the mystery assailant—made that possible option a dangerous one; if he was to retrieve his equipment, Data would have preferred preparing a heavily-armed away team and a detailed plan of the castle’s interior before even considering returning to the surface. 

The android quickly returned to the present as the sounds of a conversation drifted from the hallway, detecting two unknown male voices; one was that of a deep baritone, while the other was lighter in pitch—possibly that of a younger person. The third speaker was the familiar voice of the female assailant from earlier, who soon appeared behind the cell door with her two companions and began openly staring at the android from the hallway. 

Now that Data was not currently defending himself, the android took the opportunity to observe the woman from the corner of his eye: a young Fae within her mid-twenties, with long flowing pale hair, sharp eyes, a thin nose, and a pursed mouth. She was dressed in a grey shirt and a pair of black pants, topped off with leather boots and a flowing red cape covering her arms and sides, and was armed with two sheathed daggers even larger in size than the one sticking from his frame. By human standards the woman would be considered rather attractive; under different circumstances, Data suspected, Commander Riker would no doubt be vying for her attention over several potent glasses of _raktajino._

Towering over her was another Fae—significantly older than her, his black tunic covered a large and muscular chest, and a bush of silver hair sprang from atop his head, producing a series of flickering shadows across his face. His sharp facial expression was further accentuated by a series of curved tattoos on his right cheek in a manner like those of the Maori, giving the impression of a fierce warrior and a veteran of countless battles and wars. At the moment his attention was diverted towards the female, with whom he was engaged in light banter not unlike the conversations Data observed from Riker and Counselor Troi; it could be possible the two were partners in the romantic, if not official and permanent, sense.

Data changed his assessment—one quick glance, and Riker would likely stay clear of the woman. The commander may have been quite the ladies’ man in the past, but even he still knew well enough to respect boundaries whenever he saw any.

The second person was another male—not quite human in appearance, but definitely not Fae. A mixed-heritage individual? Likely; considering both species had been able to coexist as long as everyone could remember, crossbreeding was bound to have happened at some point. Like the first male, the second companion was distinctly muscular in appearance, but his hair in comparison was blonde like his sister’s—were they siblings or of some other relation? Probably _,_ Data reckoned—and flowed down in thick, wavy lines towards his chest. Of the three individuals, his fascination with Data was the most blatantly obvious; the man frequently tilted his head in appraisal like a tourist gawking at an exotic creature, before turning to contribute his opinion to the conversation between the other two: 

“Nope, I’ve got nothing.”

In a different scenario Data would have found their perplexion intriguing if not vaguely amusing, but his current predicament took precedence.

The woman, having come to a conclusion, was gesturing towards the posted guard. He moved to wrangle his keys from his pocket, before grunting as he inserted a small bronze key into the lock—Data mentally noted the key in question—and pushed the door gently open, the scent of perfume wafting into the room from the hallway. With several light yet precise steps, the Fae then walked into the cell, her companions following closely behind. 

A woman with daggers, a pair of burly, brusque men with swords, a small room, and a fragile table—Data quickly guessed what was about to happen and deactivated his emotion chip, turning his head to them as if to acknowledge their presence. The woman kept her gaze at the android as she sat down on the opposite stool, while the two companions (guards) flanked her rear, their gaze on the stoic figure and the blade jutting out of his chest.

* * *

Aelin sat before Data with a mixed expression on her face: a combination of the arrogance a noble would give towards a peasant in a village street, and the curiosity a child would give towards a new toy. 

Any mortal from Adarlan or Terrasen would have surely recognised the Queen Who Was Promised by now, and would be either cowardly begging on their knees for clemency or idiotically steadfast in their devotion to whoever was plotting against her. A Fae would do the same, if in a more stoic and dignified manner (foul-mouthed, more like, Aelin thought, if that one time they pranked Lorcan was any indication), and a Witch would simply gnash and snarl from the countless chains binding them to the cell walls. 

The prisoner simply... _sat_ there. He didn’t blink; he never did seem to blink. 

Did he actually not _know_ who she was?

The man’s face remained unreadable, staring back at her with his round and golden eyes. A normal being would have lines and flourishes of color in his or her pupils, but Aelin noted Data’s were as if someone had simply drawn a pair of blank circles, coloured them yellow, and placed a pair of dots for the retinas. A shiver threatened to run through the Fae as she felt his eyes penetrate her, but she suppressed it and steeled her resolve.

_My name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and I will not be afraid._

Aedion and Rowan shifted in their positions, their daggers swaying gently as their legs moved to circulate blood—a subtle intimidation tactic, which did register but would have better worked on an organic lifeform than against an android. With the prisoner having yet to talk or respond, Aelin made her move on the chessboard.

“Commander Data, isn’t it?”

Data was silent. Aelin frowned.

“No last name?”

Silence. Then, Data looked at her and spoke, “None, just Data.”

Finally, they had gotten a word out of him. Nodding warily, Aelin continued, “First thing’s first: how in the name of the gods were you able to survive _that?”_

Data glanced at the dagger, before turning his head back to his interrogators. 

Following an incident on Barkon IV when some frightened pre-warp villager had impaled the android with a rebar, his components had been coated with a thick layer of duranium—for all its craftsmanship and precision, the blade in comparison had but mere Damascus steel within it. With the hardness of a captain’s will, he might as well have been clad with a starship’s hull. 

“Your weapon struck my primary systems, but did not cause any significant damage; rather, your dagger appears to have been bent out of shape from the sheer force of impact.”

Aelin, however, had no knowledge of the Mohs scale or the intricacies of electrical engineering, so the android’s explanation flew straight over her head. Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she replied: “Care to explain in words I can actually understand?”

“In a nutshell, you missed.” 

Aelin’s nostrils flared at his insolence while Aedion’s composure briefly broke in amusement. The queen placed her hands firmly on the table, leaning forward until her face was roughly a foot away from his. 

“So,” she purred, “what would stop me from pulling that out of you? I am rather fond of that particular blade, and this woman here would be especially _unhappy_ to lose it.” Her hands traced the engravings and curves of the dagger’s handle, holding it in a firm grip. She suddenly pulled; finding neither movement from the blade nor a reaction from Data, she tugged at the hilt again.

Nothing; Data stared at her with a blank look on his face.

“You may try to extract your weapon, but I believe it became warped as you forced it through my chest and key components,” the android remarked. “As I have stated before, it would take extreme brute force to forcibly remove the blade, and an extraction of that magnitude would both destroy the weapon and critically damage my internal systems.”

“So you say,” she muttered. “So, what kind of being are you? Not a human; you’d be dead by now. A Fae would be glowing from all the magic you’d need from that kind of injury. And there aren’t any rings, fangs, or objects to mark you as a Witch or a Valg. That rules out practically every single being in this world who can walk on two feet and talk like an ordinary person. Do you know what that means, Commander?”

Data was silent.

“That means, Commander, since your tongue seems to have died again, you’re an unknown entity, something no one in this realm or anywhere else has heard of in the history of Erliea, and I. Don’t. Like it when I don’t know what I’m looking at. So I’ll ask this once more, Commander,” she said, leaning forwards until they were but inches away from each other, staring at those lifeless eyes, “who are you, Data, and what are you and your friends plotting to do in my kingdom?”

A pair of low, steady flames lit from her hands, slowly but surely heating the handle. Data’s sensors registered the heat spreading through the blade and into his body, his cooling systems working on overdrive to compensate.

Unexpectedly coming to a realization, Data rushed again through the description of the young Queen of Terrasen: young woman, Fae, blonde hair, former background as an assassin to the deposed King of Adarlan, fire-wielder who burnt whole fleets and killed the Queen of Doranelle in a blaze of glory—

Oh no.

Was this Aelin Galathynius herself?

So _this_ was the woman who had changed this entire world in the blink of an eye. The woman who had dared to stand against a cruel king and survived, who faced the wrath of a Valg queen yet endured, who had nothing to save or protect her yet flourished, and now stood before him triumphant and undefeated. 

It looked like there _was_ some element of truth to the tales about her. 

Recognising it would only be a matter of time before the flames began permanently damaging his internal systems, the android decided to reveal his hand—one card at a time, just to see what would happen. “Perhaps if I attempted to continue my explanation from earlier, we might be able to resolve the current situation in a peaceful manner.”

Aelin decided to play along, keeping the flames burning as a “friendly” reminder. “Carry on.”

Data turned his head so he was facing his interrogator—the Queen of Terrasen, no less, he reminded himself—observing her thin nose and turquoise eyes. In a level tone, he stated: “I am not a living being. I am an android, a mechanical construct, a simulation of a human being.”

Rowan and Aedion started as they turned to gape at the prisoner. Aelin eyed the “android” with a similar level of confusion and incredulity.

“What?” 

“I am mainly composed of several thousand mechanical components, welded and fused together to form an artificial structure. While there are a few imperfections in my design, it is the closest to duplicating humanity as my creator ever achieved—with some additional capabilities,” he added, raising his eyebrows as he looked down at his chest.

“And how exactly would you prove that to us?” 

Data looked at Rowan, turned to Aedion, and then turned back to Aelin; their expressions were either silently mocking or that of incredulity at his audacious claim. He was silent for a moment, as if considering his options; he then shrugged and nodded. His right hand moved towards the side of his head and abruptly jerked.

The flames abruptly died. Aedion and Rowan gawked in shock, their pretense all but shattered at the sight before their eyes. 

A round segment of Data’s hair and skin had simply come out of the top of his head, revealing not a massive clump of bone, muscles, and blood, but a smooth, grey layer of metal, covered by rows of flashing lights and wires that weaved and crossed in a nightmarish jumble of lines. The prisoner hadn’t exactly been clear about what he was trying to say, but a part of Aelin quickly understood.

Aelin stared as the android returned his cover to its proper place, silent as she pondered the ramifications of this newfound revelation. The fact that someone had been able to construct a human being was astonishing to behold; even Aelin was curious as to how this audacious goal had been accomplished. But if one android could be constructed, what about another android? And another android?

What if there was an army of false human beings in the kingdom, walking in broad daylight without any suspicion? Considering the sheer strength and durability of their prisoner, she didn’t need to think hard to figure a war between them and the armies of Terrasen would be a long and brutal conflict—or a brief one.

Aelin leaned back gracefully into her seat, maintaining eye contact with Data. “Who created you, and where can we find him? Are there others like you?”

“My creator died long ago, and as far as I am aware, I am the only functional unit remaining.” Lore came to mind, but his deactivated body was stored in a cell at a Starfleet Intelligence facility somewhere in the Beta Quadrant; Data neither felt it necessary nor prudent to mention him in detail under the given circumstances.

“Then what about your companions? Aren’t they ‘androids’ either?”

Data frowned. “They are not androids, they are carbon-based organisms of varying species.”

“As in ‘normal people?’” Aelin asked exasperatedly.

“Yes.”

The Fae wearily sighed, shifting on her chair with a newfound loathing for the android. Shaking her head, she continued, “Which brings us back to our original question: why are you here?”

“In light of the recent conflict, we seek to gather information about your society and culture.”

Somehow Aelin could tell he was telling the truth, but she knew he wasn’t revealing everything. “For what purpose? To spy on us?”

“To better understand your civilisation, and the cultures that surround it.”

 _“For what,_ specifically, Mr. Data? For all I know you could simply be a spy or assassin out to get me.”

“Scientific purposes. I am unable to disclose anything further.”

Aelin frowned threateningly, her brows digging furrows into her forehead. The mask of malevolence was resurfacing, and Rowan and Aedion shifted their feet on the floor as another “friendly” reminder. “Why?”

Data’s emotion chip remained offline, but the seriousness in his voice was palpable. “I would like to elaborate further, but the Prime Directive prohibits me from doing so. Suffice it to say, we do not seek to cause any harm to you or your people.”

“So you won’t say anything?”

“I’m afraid that is the case.”

“Can you tell me more about this ‘Prime Directive,’ Commander?”

”I would rather not say anything else.”

“Do you need additional encouragement to talk? Because I’m _more_ than willing to provide some,” she stated menacingly, tilting her head towards her beefed up guards.

“I believe your ‘additional encouragement’ will deal no more damage than your weapons despite your Fae heritage,” Data drily noted. “I am not programmed to respond to torture, and my mechanical structure will be more than likely to cause physical pain on your part. If you choose instead to destroy me—”

Aedion abruptly stepped forward, and in a blink of an eye connected the android’s face with his fish in a loud, sickening crunch. As Data expected, the demi-Fae cried in agony as he rapidly retracted his arm, revealing several large bruises and a series of gruesome compound fractures on his hands, glowering at the blood-splattered android as his healing magic got to work. Aelin and Rowan grimaced at the sight and did likewise, glaring at Data with naked disgust and clear frustration. The android tilted his head, raising his eyebrows at his interrogators.

“I did warn him.”

* * *

Two Fae and one wincing demi-Fae walked out of the cell in silence, processing the turn of events as they made their way out of the depths of the castle’s dungeons into the halls of the palace above.

“So…what now?” asked Aedion.

“First off, what in Wyrd’s name brought you to hit him, when I told you _very_ specifically _not_ to do _anything_ until I said so?” Aelin angrily replied.

“But I wanted to see that grin wiped off his face...”

“There wasn’t a grin on his face,” Rowan pointed out.

“Well, there looked like one—“

“Oh, be quiet! And _you,_ Aedion, shut it and save your bleating for Lys when she comes back, will you?” 

There was an uneasy silence as both male Fae looked at each other guiltily. Their queen sighed, shaking her head in irritation at the two. 

“Forget it. Thoughts?’

“He’s not revealing everything,” her husband observed. “There’s something very important he’s trying to conceal from us, but he won’t be breaking anytime soon.”

“We could try tracking down his companions. I’d send your description to the city guards, maybe a few messengers to Perranth and Rifthold with the description you gave,” Aedion suggested. “But knowing how these kinds of events tend to end up, they’ll likely try a rescue attempt—especially with a _thing_ like that,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his other hand back down the corridor.

“More guards, a few messengers, what else will we need?” asked Rowan.

Aelin thought carefully. “If we can capture Data’s accomplices, we could get someone to pose as him or her, maybe find out more about this little observational mission they’re running. And assuming the android’s telling the truth, it’ll likely be just another regular being.” _Much less durable and more persuasive_ _too,_ she added to herself.

Aedion sighed. “Sooo, I’ll go get—“

An auburn-haired women abruptly appeared from across the corner and collided with Aelin head on, forcing the air out of their lungs.

“Oomf, sorry, I—”

“No, it’s my fault I—oh, it’s you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been looking for you. Look, I’ve just consulted the harbormaster like you asked, and there are no ships whatsoever named the _Enterprise_ at port. Strange name for a boat, though.” 

Lysandra paused. “Why are you all staring at me like that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A piece of dialogue that I wanted to add but didn’t make the cut (and in hindsight sounds suspiciously similar to a particular hilarious scene in One-Punch Man):
> 
>  **Aelin:** Haven’t you heard of me? The Queen Who Was Promised, Queen of Terrasen and Faerie Queen of the West? Burnt the Valg fleet in Skull’s Bay, slaughtered the King of Adarlan and skewered Queen Maeve at Thelaris? Adarlan’s Assassin, Celaena Sardothien, Queen of Flame and Shadow?  
>  **Data:** _(frankly)_ Nope, never heard of you.  
>  **Aelin:** :(
> 
> Sigma Iota II—TOS, “A Piece of the Action”  
> Ekos—TOS, “Patterns of Force”  
> Barkon IV—TNG, “Thine Own Self”
> 
> Until next time!


	3. Matilda Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While a captain and a queen revise their plans, the _Enterprise’s_ mission continues on the surface...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different...

Erliea was _cold,_ Commander La Forge realised as he and his crewmates scoured the landscape.

The Starfleet officers stood upon a vast plain that made the Ferian Gap, a valley that connected the kingdoms of Adarlan and Terrasen to the east and the Witch Kingdom and Wasted Lands to the west. From both sides countless trees dotted the distant mountains, painting broad strokes of green across the surface as far as the eye could see. Geordi suspected the forest used to reach further out, but the scattering of tree stumps across the empty valley suggested the war itself or the subsequent reconstruction had long diminished the boundaries of the arboreal realm—whichever was the case, he couldn’t say for sure.

Geordi’s bionic eyes—recently installed to replace his VISOR—continued to scan the area for lifeforms, quickly isolating the patterns for his officers trekking through the grass and trees, searching for signals, metals, residual energy readings—anything, even the slightest hint that centuries ago a DY-500 colony ship the size of the _Defiant_ had plunged from the stars into that very spot.

A pulsing light in his eyes’ interface brought Geordi out of his contemplation; a pulse of electrical energy revealed one of his officers was deviating from the standard route. As the area was sparsely populated and contact with the locals deemed unlikely, Geordi was dressed in the new Starfleet uniform, fresh out of the replicator—a black suit with a grey top and yellow cuffs and collar to indicate his department, with three pips for his rank and a combadge to boot. He quickly slapped his chest and barked, “Reg, you’re going too far to the left!”

“S-s-s-sorry, Commander. I was picking up some foreign signals...wait, it’s a worm.”

Geordi sighed. “Just stick to the path, Reg, and we’ll be able to quickly complete this assignment and get back to the _Enterprise_.”

Reg mumbled an apology and resumed his search.

Commander La Forge quietly shook his head in frustration. The destruction of the old _Enterprise_ had been quite a blow for everyone, but Barclay seemed to have been hit particularly hard by the loss of the bulky but reliable ship and the comforting aura it often seemed to exude. Nevertheless, his performance, one way or another, was still greatly improved from when Geordi first met him on the D—if anything, having returned to an environment with more than a few familiar faces, Reg now seemed to be overexerting himself in his duties.

As if some higher being had heard to his thoughts, another rapid set of beeps began emanating from the ungainly engineer’s beacon on the interface. “Reg, now you’re going too fast. Try to slow down a bit!” he shouted.

“That’s not me, Commander! My long-range tricorder is picking up readings that are off the scale! They seem to be coming from four kilometres away in my general direction.”

“Send your data over to me, I’ll take a look.” 

The combadge chirped just as a series of images and windows popped up on Geordi’s LCARS interface. Picard’s voice barked out, “Mr. La Forge, status update.”

“We’re currently checking a series of signals Lieutenant Barclay just picked up, but I don’t think it’s going to be significant. Apart from that, we haven’t found anything to indicate the presence of wreckage or equipment of any kind in the area. We should be finished in a few minutes.”

“Noted. Picard out.”

A shout from Barclay’s general location suddenly reverberated across the valley: “That’s not a piece of starship, Commander! We’ve got a Wyvern and Witch coming in three kilometers away due west and closing!”

“Damn.” Geordi instantly slapped his combadge and yelled, “La Forge to _Enterprise_ , we’ve got an incoming local! Requesting emergency transport!”

* * *

A Witch from the West soared atop her prized Wyvern across the skies, smiling inwardly as Ferian Gap beckoned on the horizon. At their current altitude a mere human on the ground would only see a sprawling rush of winged, scaled black against the cloudy blue sky; in a battle they might have briefly glimpsed a long, white-haired woman garbed in a looming red cape atop before their internal organs were slashed and ripped out by Abraxos’s jaws. Manon Blackbeak’s grin widened as she thought of the faces of her mount’s last meal—some unusually moronic villagers out hunting in the Wastes had somehow failed to distinguish between a Wyvern and a flighty thrush in the night sky. The queen had been all too eager to demonstrate the gaping distinction between the two, and they had little need to stock for provisions for the rest of the trip.

Manon suspected Dorian would have been less than amused if the incident had occurred within his kingdom—although perhaps, she reckoned, he would be more aghast that his own loyal subjects had been converted to an evening meal than concerned his beloved “witchling” had been “nearly” harmed by their ignorance. The witch mentally reminded herself to scour the outskirts of Adarlan for more return trip “provisions”—and perhaps just to spite the young princeling.

As she gazed upon the landscape, four unearthly glowing lights suddenly emerged from the plains of the Gap itself, drawing her attention. Abraxos grunted and abruptly veered, changing course towards the phenomenon as his nostrils flared and recognized the scent of human flesh. Manon herself could smell the mortals ahead, although she noted it seemed to intermingle with an odd, unnatural, _synthetic_ scent—not something made from the forge or loom of any place she knew. 

The Gap neared, and Manon could spot a lone, stumbling figure in the distance, fleeing frantically towards the trees. She grinned; even the forest wouldn’t conceal the man’s scent, and he likely lacked the energy and determination of a Wyvern seeking a meal. Her nails began to lengthen when something extraordinary happened: the man disappeared in another flash of blue, glowing light, before vanishing without a trace.

The witch frowned, pulling out her sword as Abraxos landed on the ground and began uneasily pawing the grass. The scent was fresh— _very_ fresh—yet there was no one around as far as the eye could see. 

Walking across the grass did not reveal any humans camouflaged in the grass, and a rolling ball of fire from Abraxos to the nearby trees brought out nothing more than a small flock of birds fleeing the flames. Resting her hands on her hips, Manon looked around in confusion.

She wondered what Dorian would think of the whole mystery.

* * *

Dorian thought the week was off to a poor start.

It had started innocuously enough in the previous morning, when he had actually been able to awaken before the servants arrived to prepare him for the day ahead. The king suspected Manon’s absence in his bed might have had something to do with that development, yet it was nevertheless to his pleasant surprise when he received a message saying that she would be arriving from the Witch Kingdom within the evening. Breakfast was reasonably palatable, and Dorian mentally noted to personally thank the cook after his morning duties.

The Court was relatively uneventful—a few disputes over shipping rights, a fuzzy inheritance claim from after the wars, a petition for a new infrastructure project near the border with Terrasen—and the king of Adarlan was able to adjourn the assembly after a few hours and spend the remaining free time practicing his magical abilities, before searching the palace gardens for Chaol and Yrene. Finding the two of them intertwined behind a pair of azalea bushes, Dorian _very_ quietly bent a hasty retreat, grinning broadly to himself as he struggled not to laugh out loud and draw their attention. 

A trip to the library soon followed, before a working lunch and a tedious meeting with the Royal Council that lasted for two interminable hours, composed mainly of bickering and politicking between the different ministries over funds and logistics, soon resolved by threatening to have the main belligerents executed for incompetence. Their conduct instantly became civil and polite (if no less sycophantic) for the duration of the meeting. 

Finding Chaol sparring among the palace guards in the armoury afterwards, the two went for a round with some swords lying about; Dorian was quickly outed trying to cheat with his magic, and Chaol forced him to use a bread knife as a penalty. Regardless, the King still beat his Hand. 

Childishly bickering amongst themselves over the outcome, the two walked off towards the court to greet some diplomats when they passed by Yrene, who was in a deep discussion with two unfamiliar people—visitors to the new branch of the Torre Cesme at Rifthold, Dorian surmised. Trailing Chaol’s wife was a middle-aged woman with auburn hair, dressed in a thick, blue dress with ruffles and flourishes along the cuffs and sleeves, and carrying a medium-sized satchel with what Dorian suspected were mundane papers and sketches of some exotic medical case. Sure enough, she pulled out a small file and passed it to Yrene even as she curtseyed to the monarch, providing a few polite greetings to the king.

“Thank you, and welcome to Rifthold, Madam…?” Dorian asked.

“ _Doctor_ Beverly Crusher, Your Highness.”

The king raised his eyebrows at the curt remark but did not pursue the matter. His attention then turned to the third person: a female Fae with abnormally short hair, round eyes, a thin nose, and a spartan, black dress that lacked the frills of Doctor Crusher’s gown but duly compensated with the many _curves_ her form-fitting garment hinted at. Casting an appreciative glance at the view, Dorian quickly donned one of his more charming smiles.

“Greetings, and you are—“

“I am Valek, Your Highness.” 

Dorian’s manicured expression slowly began to peel away at her brusque remark. Coughing, he pressed on, “Welcome to Rifthold, Madame Valek. Perhaps you would like to stay for refreshments after your visit?”

Valek’s blank expression did not change. “That will not be necessary. We will be leaving immediately afterwards for our lodgings.”

Crusher paled; an uncomfortable silence followed. 

Partly chastised at the implied dismissal, Dorian quickly fell back into his formal businesslike manner, and after some brief conversation (and profuse apologies from Valek’s companion) watched as the two doctors followed Yrene down the hallway and disappeared into a nearby corridor. Chaol playfully nudged him on the arm. “Too blunt for your taste, was she?”

“Harumph.” 

The Hand snickered.

Dorian didn’t think much of the incident as he met with the diplomats from Ellywe and successfully persuaded them to agree to the revised terms of the treaty they had been negotiating.

He didn’t think much of the incident when he had dinner with Chaol and Yrene, when he spent an hour making strange faces in front of his goddaughter in the crib, or when he had sat on Lord Westfall’s infamous couch and _very_ deliberately ignored his and his wife’s subtle, unspoken hints for him to move elsewhere.

He didn’t think much of the incident when an irate Manon finally arrived in the middle of the night ranting about some disappearing men in the Ferian Gap, and forcibly dragged him from Chaol’s quarters with her large, threatening claws.

He didn’t think much of the incident when the two got busy drinking their heads off, wrecking all the furniture in his quarters, and cavorting on the bed until it had all but collapsed from the strain.

He didn’t think much of the incident when he had woken up with an extreme hangover and several muscle pains from sheer overexertion and questionable sleeping positions, or when he had to pay a slightly embarrassing visit to a smirking Yrene for bandages and painkillers.

Now, when a messenger from Aelin had suddenly arrived at court requesting the immediate arrest and extradition of—among other people—a certain familiar female Fae with abnormally short hair, round eyes, and a thin nose, Dorian buried his face in his hands.

He was definitely thinking much of it now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming up after this...


	4. The Gloaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Science and logic clash with might and magic in the dead of night...

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Doubting my abilities as a master planner, husband?”

“I _always_ doubt your abilities as a master planner.”

“Buzzard. Besides, when have my plans _ever_ gone wrong?”

Rowan threw his wife an incredulous stare.

* * *

Night had fallen on the city of Orynth, and as the warm ochre light gave way to the cool shades of lapis lazuli the varying sounds and noises of the city gradually faded away. In the town square, most of the shop owners had taken down their stalls and were either settling down in their homes or trundling to the nearest tavern to celebrate or commiserate the events of the day. At the old city gates, the daytime guards nodded to the night watch and began their treks toward their own respective homes, where a warm and comfortable cot or bed awaited them. One by one, the fires and lights that illuminated the city went out, until only a few bright spots could be seen across the mountainous region.

In a small and narrow alley not unlike the one where a certain Fae and android had clashed, a sudden blue, glowing light burst from the darkness, revealing a man with large tufts of black hair and an impressive thick beard running down the length of his chin. Dressed in rugged travelling clothes, the man felt his pockets for his communicator—a small badge shaped in the Starfleet insignia—tapped it, and spoke to it in a soft but firm voice: “Riker to _Enterprise._ Where’s Commander La Forge and the rest of the away team?”

Another voice replied, seeming to originate from his badge. “Sorry, Commander. Our visual sensors indicate the amount of light produced by one transporter beam alone’s already approaching the safe limit for a discreet nighttime operation. We’ll have to perform a transport every two minutes or so to minimise the risk of detection.”

A third voice, more sharp and precise, jutted in: “Why didn’t you account for this before the operation started, Lieutenant?”

An awkward silence followed. “That particular assignment was given to Lieutenant Commander Data in preparation for the Briarcliff trip, Captain. He didn’t finish it before the away mission to Orynth.”

Picard’s sigh could be heard through the communicator. “Carry on, then, but try to see if you can make the process more efficient in the future. Will, remind me to have a word with Data when he comes back.”

“Yes, sir.” Riker gazed around at the street, analyzing the shuttered buildings and paraphernalia haphazardly arranged among the cobblestones, before whirling his head towards a second blue light. Just as quickly as it came, it vanished, revealing Commander La Forge in his own set of Terrasen garbs. Nodding to Will, the two began walking at a steady pace towards the Royal Palace, tricorders discreetly concealed within their travelling cloaks.

The Royal Palace was a towering castle, perched on the edge of an outcrop with a clear view of the city below, marking the furthest extent of the mountains to the north. From Riker’s view to the west lay a tall column of rock once part of the vast cliff, where the old city had first begun its days before spreading to the valley below; there, the two Starfleet officers and several other identical teams began prowling the outskirts of the fortress above them.

“Couldn’t we have beamed somewhere closer to the castle itself?” asked Riker.

Geordi shook his head. “Too risky. It’s hard to get a clear visual of the streets in the older segments from the Enterprise, and the light produced would very likely draw attention to our presence.”

Riker paused. “So in case of an emergency like the last one, what do we do?”

“Same as last time, Commander; get a transport from a quiet spot, and hope the damage to the Prime Directive isn’t as bad as we think it is.”

“So in other words, we’re going to have to walk to the castle?”

“Yep.”

The commander sighed. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

* * *

“Well, those plans worked, didn’t they?”

Rowan continued to glare at his wife.

“Okay, fine, I’m sorry for tricking you both times! Now will you admit it’s a great plan?”

Silence.

“You’re just going to keep doing that, aren’t you?”

Her husband merely raised an eyebrow in response.

“All right, now you’re just messing with me, you buzzard. Stop it."

* * *

The Royal Palace wasn’t confined to the castle itself. Countless extensions and defense plans had developed a vast network of tunnels boring into the cliff itself, weaving in and out in a crazy jumble and occasionally emerging from the cliff face as a door or a window or a thin slit where an archer could fire at invading forces. 

One particular opening, by the side of a narrow, slanted thoroughfare stood a medium-sized window of a cell, its occupant currently seated while carefully analysing the day’s events in his head at roughly sixty trillion operations per second. A faint noise suddenly brought Data out of its thoughts; it sounded distinctly familiar…

Turning his head quietly towards the window, he saw Commanded Riker’s head from behind the bars, whispering in a sharp voice, “Data!”

The android rose from his seat and walked to the crouched first officer. “I will be back shortly. There is a guard at the door,” he said, before vanishing into the darkness of the cell. Straining his ears, Riker suddenly heard a faint grunting sound, before the slightly noisier crash of armor reverberated across the room; five seconds later Data reemerged into view.

“Good evening, Commander. I trust you have a plan for my immediate escape.”

“Not yet, Data. We still have to find a way to extract you from the cell without arousing suspicion, and that includes removing— _urgh_ —these— _hurgh_ —bars.” Riker grunted as he pushed and pulled at the aforementioned barriers, but the metal girders remained as firm as ever.

Data frowned. “Even if we were to remove these barriers through conventional methods, my torso would not be able to fit through the narrow space, even if we removed all my appendages,” he stated. Geordi nodded in agreement.

“He’s right, Commander. This is a magnesium alloy here, and we won’t be able to cut through this without a buzzsaw or even a Type-1 phaser. We’re going to need a Plan B.”

“Suppose we try beaming you out of there?”

“Prime Directive, Commander.”

“...right.”

Data’s frown deepened, making furrows on his forehead. “I believe the guard I just incapacitated had the keys for my cell door. As I have the approximate path stored in my memory banks, it would be possible to leave the facility through the main entrance; I could also attempt to retrieve my equipment along the way.”

Riker thought, then nodded. “All right, but be careful. I’m sending you the plans for the castle interior from the previous expedition, and we’ll be making our way back to the _Enterprise._ ” Reaching for his tricorder, he tapped a few buttons in the interface, sending a signal to Data’s computer. The android’s eyes briefly widened as he processed the two gigabytes of information within five seconds, before he blinked and turned to his commanding officer.

“I have received the plans, sir.”

“Good luck, then. We’ll see you aboard shortly—”

“Daniels to Riker! We’re getting a series of signals near you; there’s someone approaching your position!”

Sure enough, four guards appeared from a nearby corner, dressed in gleaming armor and armed to the teeth with swords and daggers. One soldier holding a torch yelled something indecipherable to the human tongue, but Riker quickly realized it likely wasn’t a friendly greeting. Nodding to Geordi, he turned to Data. “See you soon.”

The two officers burst into motion, running off with a burst of speed to dodge the hail of arrows whizzing in the air towards them. Data sprinted towards the still-unconscious guard by the door, roughly inserting his hands into the guard’s pockets until his synthetic hand felt the cold metal keys in its grasp. Pulling them out and roughly jamming the correct one into its slot, Data twisted the key and pushed with considerable force, forcing the door open with a violent screech as it scraped across the floor. 

With escape at hand, Data switched to infrared vision and ran off, retracing the path to the outside world from memory.

* * *

A small round burst of red light fired through the air, bathing the darkened city with a flash of red. From a gate another red burst shot into the sky, before a gigantic cascade of lights and flares of innumerable colors launched themselves onto the night, rudely awakening the city of Orynth from its slumber to warn them of the crisis at hand.

Amidst the lightshow two Starfleet officers scrambled through the city streets, their eyes meticulously scanning every corner for an alleyway, a tunnel, an open door—anywhere where they could hide and call for a transport. The angry clamour behind them was growing closer, and the vague, flickering torches ahead of them suggested the entire city was now aware of the two stragglers in the night.

“We need to confuse them to buy ourselves some more time,” Geordi panted as they barely dodged yet another night patrol in pursuit. Riker was barely able to give a nod from the sheer overexertion, but the engineer saw the small yet noticeable movement of his chin indicating his concurrence.

“Let’s split up,” Riker suggested.

“No, that’s what Data did, he—never mind, _split_!”

A fifth patrol had appeared directly ahead of them barricading the road, and Geordi didn’t need to see the pointy ears and raised swords to know they were in hot water. The two figures diverged onto different routes, and the three guards on the main road lowered their weapons in brief confusion before breaking off in pursuit. Riker risked a glance behind his shoulder and saw to his relief (and slight concern) the majority of the pursuers had opted to chase Geordi instead, before another left turn round a corner obscured his vision. 

Looking back ahead, he saw a narrow alleyway a few meters away on his right; the guards were still behind the corner, and they didn’t see him vanish into the darkened thoroughfare. Weaving through an increasingly narrow maze of passageways, the human eventually paused to hide behind the corner of a seemingly derelict building, glancing back to see if they had been able to follow him.

A Fae slowly walked into view, torch and sword at hand as he carefully scrutinized the passageway Riker had taken in search of his quarry. Whatever suspicions he had were disturbed by a sudden shout from nearby; quickly shaking his head as if broken from a trance, the soldier turned and ran out of sight towards the other sound. Will sighed in relief, and ventured out of the shadows to examine his location.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Riker observed that he stood on the edge of a small park. Not as large as the marketplace the away team had explored earlier that day, he noted; a comparison in size to the holodecks back on the old _Enterprise_ would have been more appropriate. The similarities continued: apart from the unique, aged, and eclectic buildings surrounding the square, the place was completely empty and barely had anything of note or even significance—no snoozing beggars, no prowling feline with eyes glistening in the night, no rustling leaves or garbage from snacks left behind—not a single thing at all.

There was a rectangular patch of brown grass in the middle lined by eight cold stone benches, with two for each side. At the very center of it all, illuminated by the moon was a tall wooden tree, its branches bare of leaves and devoid of any sign of life—

—save for a white tailed hawk precariously balanced atop, staring at the human intently. Riker approached the tree, eyeing the bird suspiciously.

The hawk had green eyes.

* * *

The Royal Palace was in an uproar.

As word quickly spread of the intruders within the dungeons, the alarm had been sounded across the city, and every soldier and guard on duty mobilised and dispatched to their posts. From above, one would have mistaken the castle for an upturned anthill after seeing all the brightly-clad men and Fae madly scrambling within and without, whether to secure the facility or recapture the would-be-escapee on the loose.

One such group stormed down a hallway with the latter in mind, passing by a small wooden cabinet on the side without giving it as much as a passing thought. The door suddenly creaked open, revealing their quarry emerging from the broom closet; Data emitted a small cough as he turned to look in both directions, before walking off in the opposite path of his pursuers.

Fifteen lefts and twenty rights towards the main entrance, Data recalled. At the tenth right he could make a detour towards the royal quarters and search for the tricorder and combadge; Aelin’s curiosity over Data and his trinkets was evident, and she would likely have been studying the objects to find any clues revealing the android’s purpose. While the android couldn’t precisely confirm where exactly his equipment was, Aelin’s room seemed like a good place to start. 

Spotting another approaching band of guards, Data quickly swerved into a room beside the hallway—a storage space for furniture, he noted—and kept his ears trained on the door as the horde rumbled by and faded away. He came out and resumed his path. 

_Eighth left._

_Seventh right._

_Ninth left._

_Guards._

_Eighth right._

_Ninth right._

_Guards._

_Tenth left._

_Eleventh left._

_Tenth right._

Here, instead of turning right, Data turned left, heading towards the royal quarters—or perhaps more appropriately the lion’s den, he reckoned, considering the significant risk he was taking. The decorations became more ostentatious and the guards more frequent, and at one point Data was nearly spotted by the passing figures: soldiers, ladies-in-waiting, and even the occasional palace servants.

Neither the Queen nor her entourage appeared throughout the android’s trek, but Data decided not to question his luck.

He stopped before a grand, illuminated hallway. Covered by sprawling paintings and golden trimmings, the salon was accentuated with ornately designed chandeliers, and dozens of gleaming statues dotted the room. On every window lay a pair of streaming red curtains with flaxen floral trimmings embroidered on the side, and displayed prominently in the center of the room was a gigantic painting of the Queen of Terrasen and her retinue. There was Aelin seated in the middle, with her husband standing to the left and the demi-Fae seated to the right. 

To the other side of Aelin’s husband were four figures: a tall, finely dressed male with blue eyes and black hair, flanked by a Southern female in a dress with orange hair and brown eyes. Staring at her was a visibly aged brown-haired man clad in shining armor, very visibly attempting to ignore the silver-haired witch posing beside him with a flowing red cape and sword. The bronze, Wyvern-shaped badges on the three humans likely labelled them as diplomats from Adarlan, if not members of the monarchy; the Witch was likely a high-ranking member of the Crochan hierarchy herself. 

On the other side, with her hand wrapped around the demi-Fae stood a long-haired woman with green eyes and a tight, flowing dress, while her other hand grasped the smaller palm of a ginger-haired youngling with large, round pupils and a scar that streaked across her otherwise youthful face. At the far right end of the painting a third woman with a crippled foot leaned on the chest of a soft, brooding demi-Fae, his darkened hair as short as hers was long. The painting’s title: _The Court of Erilea, Triumphant and Everlasting._

_For Nehemia, Sorscha, Gavriel, Asterin, Sorrel, Vesta, Faline, Fallon, Edda, Briar, Thea, Kaya, Linnea, Ghislaine, Imogen, Kaltain, and Sam._

Lords and ladies, kings and queens, Data realised. The Queen of Terrasen had a vast sphere of influence in the continent alone, and if she and her people were threatened in any way, all the kingdoms of the planet would rise to her call without a moment’s hesitation. This was a serious turn of events, and if the crew of the _Enterprise_ was unable to quickly resolve the situation the planet would be all but impossible to explore for the next few centuries.

Correction: the Fae’s average lifespan extended into the thousands of years. It would be _millennia_ before the Federation—or whatever successor state existed by then—could even _consider_ venturing onto the surface.

Refocusing on the missing tricorder and combadge, Data switched to infrared vision and examined the door to the Queen’s quarters for heat signatures. Behind it a demi-Fae was nervously pacing back and forth across the room, while a pair of burly soldiers stood guard in front. Apart from them, there was no one of immediate concern in the area. The android quickly glanced behind his back to confirm no one was approaching, then returned his attention to the two guards. Problem one: how to distract them…

Another guard, more elaborately dressed than the rest, suddenly emerged from the other side of the hallway and walked towards the two soldiers, who quickly snapped to attention. Of higher rank, obviously, thought Data, as the officer barked: “Anything to report?”

Both of them simultaneously: “No, sir!”

“Carry on, then.”

The officer began walking towards Data’s position, and an idea came to the android’s mind.

* * *

“Excellent work, buzzard. Lys, are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

“I must say, I rather like the beard. Why don’t you grow a beard, Rowan?”

“I tried it once. Lyria said I looked like a hedge.”

* * *

A loud crash shook the guards from their reverie, and the two quickly drew out and pointed their weapons at the sound’s general direction: the hallway Captain Kyllian had just entered mere seconds ago. His voice called out: “Hey, come here and help me with this.”

Eyeing each other, one guard nodded and warily walked towards the passageway, weapon still drawn while the other pointed his spear to his companion’s flank. While accidents involving misplaced items were common in the Royal Palace, Lady Caraverre’s identity as a shapeshifter was a well-known fact across Terrasen—details had yet to emerge regarding the mysterious escapee and his mysterious abilities, and where facts were scarce rumor and superstition ran rampant.

The guard went through the doorway and vanished around the corner, and his companion intently craned his ears for any sound or signal from his partner. Nothing, not a peep or squeak or scream came out from the hallway. So intently focused on the near end of the corridor, the guard never thought to check his own flank. 

The last thing he remembered was the cold, dead hand on his neck as he slumped onto the floor, unconscious.

Excellent work, Data reckoned.

* * *

“Not even as a _tiny_ favor for—”

“The escort’s here. We should get going.”

“Harumph. Good luck, then, Lys. Rowan and the others will be tailing you, just in case.”

“Good to hear. Give—”

“Your Highness!”

“Keep it down, idiot! What is it, Captain?”

“The prisoner has broken from his cell! He’s still in the castle, but we haven’t found him yet.”

Aelin paused. “We’ll need to get back to Aedion. You, Captain, try to keep up. Rest of you, stick to the plan.”

* * *

Data was rather hoping he wouldn’t have to resort to his “borrowed” sword as he quietly entered the room, softly pacing towards the demi-Fae.

No such luck tonight. 

The demi-Fae’s ears must have picked up the android’s footsteps, for he suddenly whirled round, hurling an elongated hunting knife at the door. Data instantly dodged, and the dagger narrowly brushed his ear before harmlessly ricocheting off the wood and noisily clattering outside on the hallway floor. Seeing his quarry was neither dead nor wounded—protruding projectile notwithstanding—the demi-Fae drew an even larger sword and with a fierce cry launched himself at the enemy.

As the two fought, Data noted that he appeared to have the initial advantage. In his positronic brain the android could instantly recall over twenty thousand possible techniques specifically for sword combat, of which at least a hundred forms originated from the very same planet as his opponent. Yet despite the sum of his knowledge and his enhanced dexterity, the demi-Fae had the greater experience in actual combat and physical practice; slowly but surely, the android was forced back, step by step. Narrowly parrying a sweeping stroke, Data’s sword was yanked out, and the android found the demi-Fae’s weapon prodding the tip of his throat. 

“In the name of the Queen of Terrasen, you’re under arrest,” the warrior declared.

Data would be inclined to agree, but he had other priorities in mind. 

With an inhuman display of agility, he jerked to one side and narrowly dodged the blade swinging at his throat, before circling round the aggressor in search for an opening (or possibly his sword, whichever he found first). The demi-Fae remained vigilant, crouched in a fighting position with his sword raised high and his fiery eyes constantly watching the lifeless, artificial pair staring back.

Data needed a quick ending to the match before more guards arrived.

He rushed forward, and the sword swung back, threatening to pierce his jugular. But his hand came first, grabbing it by the blade in the nick of time as he heaved with inhuman effort; the sword was sharply bent into a curve, yet miraculously it failed to shatter from the strain as the android pushed forward inch by inch towards the soldier. 

The blood ran from the demi-Fae’s face at the surreal display of strength, but the android’s expression remained as focused as ever at his opponent. Soon, less than a foot separated their faces, and Data could feel the cool, rapid breaths of his opponent.

The not-man spoke: “I do not believe that to be the case.” 

The android’s free hand shot towards the base of the neck and pinched; the demi-Fae squeaked and grunted, his eyes rolling freely as he fell limply and slumped gracelessly onto the floor. 

A female voice called out from the hallway: “Aedion?”

That was _not_ a favorable development. 

Data leapt, quickly slamming the door shut, and yanked a table of drawers in front of him, his hands soaring across as he searched each level for the offending tricorder and combadge. The knob jiggled, and pushed back and forth as the voice called out: “Aedion? What’s happening there? _Aedion_!”

With frightening speed Data hurled himself into the remaining shelves and cabinets, opening and closing each door and drawer as a series of loud thuds and shouts reverberated from the door. 

“Aedion, you had better _not_ be dead or by Hellas, Lysandra and I am going to _bring_ you back and _kill_ you ourselves! _Open the door!”_

Having found nothing from any of the cabinets or shelves, Data checked the desk. Papers, stamps, knives, paints—

A growing heat signature could be detected from behind the door.

—papers, mirror, unwashed socks, miniscule lingerie, opened candy wrappers—

The heat, spreading from the wooden entrance, could now be felt inside the room.

—only perfume here, Data opted to send a wireless signal to his equipment and located them in a drawer below the dressing table. He yanked it open, tossed a golden nightgown over his shoulder, and grabbed the tricorder and combadge—in working order, excellent—

—just as a huge, round fireball burst through the door, blasting it and everything in front of it into shards, splinters, and ashes. Data turned towards the gaping hole, and saw through the smoke a young, feminine face with glowing hands, who gasped at the sight of the unconscious demi-Fae and snarled.

Aedion was down—if not dead—and Data would pay in blood. 

Only one way out, the android realised.

Without warning, Data hurled himself towards the balcony. A roaring wall of flames rushed in from behind, but he paid no attention as he ran through the fire and vaulted over the edge, feeling the screeching air whipping at his face as his clothes burnt and peeled off at the edges and the noise and chaos of the last few hours disappeared in a blur of rushing wind. Aelin rushed to the balcony and peered at the flaming figure falling twenty stories from her tower to the ground below. 

Somehow, he had even worse self-preservation instincts than she had, Aelin thought as she awaited the inevitable end.

But to Aelin’s surprise, Data did not explode or shatter into a heap of mechanical parts. He landed on his feet with a loud thud and the crashing of cobblestones, and rose from his crouched position, before brushing himself down and scrambling off down the bailey. The queen snarled, when she quickly recalled Data’s insane maneuver. 

_That_ was a game for two, she thought. Aelin sniggered, grinning evilly at her latest plan.

From Data’s viewpoint a small figure leapt from the balcony on the Queen’s royal tower—none other than the queen herself, although how she intended to survive the landing was—

The Fae’s hands moved from her hips; her palms facing the ground below, they glowed and burst into flame. Like a pair of rocket engines, two jets of spiralling plasma shot through the air onto the ground and created a conflagration of light, smoke, and sound as they slowed her approach. Two houses below burst and exploded in a gigantic conflagration of rubble, sand, and stones, unable to withstand the searing firestorm bearing down upon them. 

Data risked another glance as Aelin disappeared behind the flames and smoke; had she been immolated by her own inferno or asphyxiated from the lack of oxygen?

As he gaped, a figure emerged from the flames: a woman with blonde hair, clad in shining, silver armour with grey and yellow trimmings circling and spiralling across. Tied to her waist was a billowing blue cape with golden borders and inlaid ivory flowers, and on her hands she welded a large, gleaming sword with a red ruby on the hilt. Her face was frigid as ice, yet the woman was in flames and basked in it, drawing the embers from the burning street back into her hands as if summoning her strength for a gigantic blast of fire.

This was no mere Fae the _Enterprise_ was dealing with. This was the Queen of Terrasen, Heir of Mala Fire-Bringer herself, and she would take no prisoners and show no mercy to her foes. 

Data was under no illusions whatsoever over what he was to her.

* * *

Daniels looked up from his console. “Captain, I’m reading unusual temperature readings from the castle keep. Sensors indicate three hundred degrees and rising, sir.”

“On screen.”

An image of the Royal Palace popped up on the main monitor, revealing several buildings of the complex in flames. As Picard watched, several stone structures collapsed, sending another cloud of dust and embers into the night sky. A lone figure could be faintly spotted calmly walking through the inferno, a long and shining sword at hand. Jean-Luc’s eyes widened in horror as he stared at the conflagration below.

“What the devil’s happening down there?”

* * *

Data raced around the corner towards a road leading to a large gate, and several shouts reverberated across the complex as the guards recognised their quarry. Several arrows narrowly missed his head, and a blow of a horn sounded as the portcullis began to slowly lower into place. The android’s long legs broke into a run as the projectiles increased in frequency and the yelling became louder; he determined he would be able to fit through the bars before they fell into place.

“Cut the chains!”

A guard picked an axe and hurled it at the mechanism lowering the gates, smashing the interlocked gears. Data watched and dashed as the iron grating hurled to the ground; at the last second a pair of mechanical hands reached the bars and began straining to lift them, raising them up inch by inch.

Aelin appeared around the corner, sword in hand, and a guard began running down the stairs to the gate. Another well-aimed axe blow, and a second pair of doors—solid, bronze ones—began descending onto the ground. Three guards emerged, with spears, swords, and a humongous mace drawn. 

But at the last second, the android released his grip and slid under the falling entrance, vanishing from sight as the bronze barrier slammed onto the ground. The loud clang of the portcullis door soon followed, sealing the android out of the castle’s interior premises. If the loud shouts behind the barrier—an angry, familiar female voice among them—were any indication, the Starfleet officer was in the clear for now.

Data stood in a dark, arched tunnel underneath the castle gate. Behind him stood the doors and portcullis, and ahead of him the moonlight from the city beckoned to Data. The android began sprinting to the entrance as he held his tricorder on one hand and placed his combadge on his chest with the other.

“Commander Data to _Enterprise_.”

A pause. The furious shouts behind the door were increasing in volume and intensity. The combadge fizzled, before suddenly bursting into life.

“Picard to Data; it’s good to hear your voice. What is your situation?”

“I am in need of emergency transport before I am seen again by the guards. I am outside the premises of the Royal Palace.”

“Very well, we’ll be beaming you up shortly. We’re detecting unusual sensor readings near your coordinates; what the hell is happening down there?”

Data paused before turning towards the shut doors. “Perhaps I should explain aboard the _Enterprise_.”

“Very well. Mr. Singh, transport Mr. Data aboard. And Mr. Data, it’s good to have you back.”

A lone figure unexpectedly landed on the cobblestones from the castle ramparts in a storm of flames, blocking the exit from the tunnel into the city and trapping Data within. The android could see the shining armor and flaming hands all too clearly as the Fae Queen turned towards her prey, her face contorted into an expression of pure and unadulterated fury. Data blinked, and the woman vanished from sight, replaced a rapidly approaching wall of billowing flames seemingly spiralling towards the hapless android at the speed of light. 

But at the last second before the wall of fiery death could claim its mechanical victim, a familiar blue glow surrounded the android. Data’s vision was replaced by a shimmering white brilliance, before fading away to reveal the comforting maroon walls and ochre lines of the _Enterprise_ ’s transporter room.

* * *

Lieutenant Daniels and Commander Crusher stood nervously beside Chief Singh as the latter fiddled with his controls, dragging his fingers across the touchscreen. A blue, unearthly glow emerged from the transporter pad to reveal the culprit behind what turned what should have been an uneventful survey mission into a colossal cock-up: a tall android with lifeless eyes and skin as pale as a corpse. 

Crusher gasped and Daniels started; Data’s clothes were significantly burnt and had disintegrated in several locations, and his normally neatly combed hair was now completely disheveled and unkempt. And that dagger protruding from his chest…

“Data, are you all right?” asked Crusher, already instinctively pulling out her tricorder and running scans on the android as he stepped down from the pad.

“Yes, I believe that is the case. My primary systems are still functional, and there does not appear to be any significant damage. The dagger has been fused onto my chest, however, and cannot be removed by brute force.”

“We’ll need Commander La Forge to get that extracted,” Daniels replied, his eyes still focused on the knife. “He was on the last away team and hasn’t updated us yet regarding his status. I’ll get Barclay to run additional tests and prepare the operation—”

“La Forge to _Enterprise_!”

Daniels reached for his combadge and slapped it like a swatter flattens a fly. “ _Enterprise_ to La Forge, Daniels here, sir. What’s your status?”

“We’ve managed to escape the guards and met up in some old park in the Merchant’s District. Riker and I are awaiting transport.”

“Very well, sir, I think you’re the last away team to be beamed out. Mr. Singh?”

Mr. Singh’s fingers again began flying across the board, and then swiped up as two transporter beams materialised. Daniels noted the transport seemed to be taking longer than expected, but he could already see the faint outline of Geordi’s face. Yet in Riker’s place he thought he could briefly see someone else—someone younger, someone feminine…

The transport was completed and the blue glow faded, revealing Will’s cobalt eyes and thick, flowing beard. Daniels blinked and shook his head. 

Must have been his imagination.

The two transportees looked around as if to ascertain they were aboard the Enterprise and not fleeing for their lives; their eyes quickly went to Data, and they started in surprise. Geordi gaped at the dagger in astonishment. “Data, you’ve been stabbed!”

Data frowned again. “I am in need of your assistance in Engineering to extract the weapon. There has been no damage to my primary systems, but removing it should produce less of a disturbance among the crew.”

Geordi nodded, “Alright, Data, I’ll see what I can do. Commander, Doctor, Lieutenant, Chief.” Nodding again to his fellow officers, he, Crusher, and Data walked out of the room, the doors hissing as they shut behind them.

Daniels turned to Riker. “The Captain wants a report at 0800 hours tomorrow during the daily briefing. The scientific team will be there as well to assess the situation and determine if we can continue on with the mission.”

Riker looked around again uneasily, the officer noted. Uneasiness? Exhaustion? Nervousness? It was around 2159 hours, and being chased by guards in the middle of the night didn’t exactly benefit one’s personal health—not on such a crazed planet with its borderline godlike species and paranoid monarchs. “Yes...right. I’d better...get to my quarters before the meeting, then.”

Daniels nodded. “Very well, sir. Have a good rest, and see you in the morning.” 

Riker smiled weakly as he walked towards the doors. “You too, then…” Nodding, the commander turned to leave, and the door hissed shut behind him. Frowning, Daniels turned to Singh. 

“Why did that last transport take longer than usual?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm...


	5. Meeting in the Aisle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picard and Data conduct a post-mortem. A certain shapeshifter explores the ship while trying not to blow her cover.
> 
> Crewmen, we have one impostor among us...

Without the prying eyes of the occasional misogynist or the leering jeers of the passing drunkard, undercover reconnaissance missions like this were generally much, _much_ easier to complete. Not that it made the sudden turn of events any less confusing—Lysandra was fairly certain that at this point, Aelin’s deceptively simple plan had long gone off the rails.

It was quite a departure from the queen’s normally grand, multilayered, and oftentimes downright insane schemes from the old days: nab an accomplice and impersonate him, follow the others to the fabled _Enterprise_ , and round up the entire lot for questioning with Rowan and his troops. If Data escaped they could have simply followed him; if all the would-be escapees were caught they could simply have tortured the information from them and sent the whole cadre to finish off the rest. A win-win scenario, just as everyone wanted: quick, succinct, and very much unlikely to cause trauma or pain to anyone involved.

Considering this whole scheme had been _Aelin’s_ idea, in hindsight Lysandra should have known better than to trust that everything would go as planned.

The plan had immediately gone south upon meeting up with the bearded man’s companion—a bearded Southerner with strange blue eyes and a peculiar badge shaped like a caveman’s finely carved lint tool. She managed to pass off as Aelin’s captive, but when she turned to walk towards the docks he had simply stood where he was, looking at her oddly.

“We’re not going to beam up from here, Commander?” he asked.

Lysandra stared at him confusedly. “I thought...er...we were going...back?” 

The Southerner kept his peculiar look, then shrugged noncommittally.

“Is your combadge not working? I’ll contact the Enterprise myself, then.” He reached for his chest and lightly tapped on the badge, calling out, “La Forge to _Enterprise!”_

To Lysandra’s surprise someone spoke in response, yet the voice appeared to be coming from La Forge’s emblem. “Enterprise to La Forge, Daniels here, sir. What’s your status?”

“We’ve managed to escape the guards and meet up in some old park in the Merchant’s District. Riker and I are awaiting transport.”

“Very well, sir, I think you’re the last away team to be beamed out. Mr. Singh?”

Lysandra masked her emotions as she discreetly looked around in wild confusion. Why were they not walking or moving towards the docks or the city outskirts? Was the _Enterprise_ not a vessel, or was it some kind of hideout or winged creature to pick them up? And what in Wyrd’s name—

A blue, unearthly glow appeared on both La Forge and Lysandra, and the shapeshifter shut her eyes and clamped her mouth as she felt herself fade away from Orynth and hover in a sea of nothingness. Her feet then came to rest on something solid; fairly certain she wasn’t on Terrasen—or even Erliea—she opened her eyes to have a look.

—was happening?

Lysandra stood on a circular pad in a cylindrical chamber adorned with orange linear lights on the walls, which opened to a small, maroon room roughly the size of a tavern. Standing in front of her was a middle-aged woman with ginger hair and a lapiz lazuli coat that covered a grey suit, and to her left was a young yet more bedraggled male dressed in an identical grey suit. The shapeshifter did note the different colors and the silver pins on the two humans’ collars—an indicator of rank or position, she surmised. Lys turned her eyes from the thickly-bearded man behind the two figures and barely suppressed a gasp.

A hideously pale human in ragged, bloodstained, partially burnt clothes stared at her, with no visible reaction or sign of pain from the dagger embedded on his chest. Lysandra recognized the weapon as Aelin’s favorite hunting knife, dating back to her days as Arobynn’s lackey; was this the infamous prisoner everyone had been talking about? But what was he doing here? Something serious must have happened if he had managed to escape from the most secure building in Erilea; his dishevelled appearance spoke volumes of the difficulty of such an audacious task. 

Come to think of it, Aelin’s fiery magic very likely contributed to his slightly roasted condition, Lysandra realised with no small amount of amusement. Yet her thoughts quickly turned to Aedion; was he all right?

Lys heard a gasp, and turned to see La Forge behind her. “Data, you’ve been stabbed!” he said.

The pale figure called Data frowned. “I am in need of your assistance in Engineering to extract the weapon. There has been no damage to my primary systems, but removing it should produce less of a disturbance aboard the ship.”

Geordi nodded, “Alright, Data, I’ll see what I can do. Commander, Doctor, Lieutenant, Chief.” Lysandra quickly noted the designated ranks and positions for each officer in her mind, and looked on as La Forge and Data walked towards a pair of sliding doors. There was no one visibly controlling the two metal panels and no Wyrdmarks painted on, yet the doors hissed open as if recognising their presence and shut behind them, leaving the four in the room.

The man turned to “Riker.” “The Captain wants a report at 0800 hours tomorrow during the daily briefing. The scientific team will be there as well to assess the situation and determine if we can continue on with the mission.”

 _Quick, come up with something. Just say anything._ “Yes...right.” she murmured. “I’d better get...to my quarters, then.”

If the man suspected anything out of the ordinary, his blank, tired expression wasn’t revealing anything. “Very well, sir. Have a good rest, and see you in the morning.” 

_Good enough._ Lysandra smiled weakly as she walked towards the doors. “You too, then…” she replied. As the two panels closed behind her the shapeshifter slowly broke into a frantic run down the hallway, looking for something, _anything_ , that could tell where the _hell_ she was.

* * *

“Hold still, Data; this is a very delicate procedure I’m performing here.” 

Crusher squinted as she moved her pliers with exact precision, carefully plucking a small fragment of the dagger from Data’s interior and placing it on a metal tray. The hilt and shattered blade lay atop, along with several smaller yet equally lethal shards.

Data’s primary systems may have survived a dagger, a twenty-story drop, and several hundred degrees of flame, but the damage to the android was nevertheless significant. Using a portable medical transporter had successfully removed the largest portions of the weapon, but La Forge had determined that fifteen smaller pieces were still embedded inside the android. Unless they wanted to risk transporting an artificial digestive tract or piercing the lungs by accident, the meticulous hands of Beverly Crusher would be needed to extract the fragments by hand. Data now sat atop a bed in Sick Bay, his head attached to a spindle of wires while the doctor carefully fingered at his organs.

Geordi turned to look at a console on the wall. “That’s number thirteen gone. Try and see if your wireless connection’s working.”

Data tilted his head as he processed his request. This miniscule movement nevertheless broke Beverly’s concentration, and she sighed and shook her head. “Data!”

His emotion chip reactivated, the android had the sagacity to appear remorseful. “I apologise, Commander. I will try to minimise my movements so as not to further disturb your work.”

“You’d better, Data, unless you want your stomach spilling digestive juices all over my uniform! Now sit still.” Crusher restrapped the microscope on her head and leaned towards the android’s chest. Her hands carefully moved the pliers towards a miniscule fragment, and pulled. Data’s eyes widened and blinked rapidly for a brief second, but returned to their normal, droopy expression. 

Geordi looked again. “Number fourteen. Doctor, can I have Data test his ocular systems?”

Crusher paused and threw a dangerous look at the engineer. “As long as it doesn’t require him moving his head or any other of his appendages, it should be fine.” She stared intently back at the final piece.

Geordi carefully nodded, and Data began blinking at a steady pace. His eyes then moved to observe the room, before refocusing on Crusher’s ginger hair. A buzzing noise sounded from Data’s chest, and the android suddenly saw the doctor standing in front of him, her face gleaming with triumph as she held the last piece of the dagger with her pliers. Geordi looked up, and a warm smile came across his face.

“I suppose that’s number fifteen,” he said. 

Beverly’s smile grew wider. “And the last one, too. We’ll just need to patch up the damaged portions, replace some panelling, and apply the dermal regenerator, and you should be good to go.”

Geordi nodded. “Guess I’ll unpack my repair kit and get started, then,” he said, his hand reaching for a small, grey toolbox on the floor and walking towards the bed. The entrance to Sick Bay suddenly opened, and Picard and Valek walked in from behind the doors. Walking towards the trio, the captain turned to Crusher. “Beverly, how’s our patient?”

“Apart from some minor damage to his internal systems, Data’s in a good condition. We just need to perform some minor repairs and patch him up; otherwise, he should be discharged within the hour.”

“Excellent work, Commander,” Picard smiled as he nodded, but his eyes spoke of a different story. He then turned towards the broken dagger on the tray, and his eyebrows peaked. Beverly fought back the urge to laugh as the captain observed the weapon and the hilt and blades’ delicate carvings with keen interest, the captain’s smile widening as his inner archeologist _very_ visibly manifested.

Roughly three feet long, the dagger extended from Picard’s waist to his feet and was curved in appearance with the blade seamlessly transitioning to the hilt—a noticeable difference from the cross-shaped swords of the medieval knights and Crusaders back on Earth. If anything, the dagger bore a resemblance to a branch snapped off a tree, yet the thing appeared to be constructed out of solid metal. Iron? Steel, perhaps; records did exist in Terran history regarding Damascus and Wootz steel, widely used before the Industrial Revolution turned it into a building material. Even though the dagger had been completely shattered, Picard could still trace the intricate design that had been etched on it, weaving and swirling from the pointy end of the blade to the tip of the handle—an impressive work of art, the captain thought.

“This doesn’t seem to be from Terrasen,” he observed.

“It appears to have been made in Adarlan,” Valek replied. “Damascus steel was, and I believe still is, produced in the Red Desert, and the nomadic groups in the region have connections to Adarlan’s more disreputable organisations—the Assassins' Guild, for instance.”

Picard nodded as he carefully handled the hilt of the dagger. “It would explain the shape and structure of the weapon.” Returning it to the tray, he quickly returned to his professional, stern expression. “Commander Data, I need to have a word with you and Valek in private. Inform me when your repairs are complete and report to my ready room for debriefing. Try to find Commander Riker, too; he should have been beamed aboard right after you escaped from the castle, but he isn’t responding to the intercom.”

Data nodded. “Yes, sir. He materialised with Geordi less than a minute after my own arrival; he should be somewhere aboard the ship.”

* * *

“Will!”

Lysandra looked over her shoulder, spotting a woman in another grey outfit, this time adorned with a blue collar and cuffs and three yellow pins on the former. Her appearance was youthful, but the shapeshifter could notice the subtle signs of age on her face. A bundle of brownish hair flowed somewhat freely down her neck and shoulders, and Lys’s eyes looked down her slim waist towards her thin legs and black boots.

Didn’t anyone wear dresses aboard this ship?

Troi noticed Riker appeared to be reading a diagram of the Enterprise on the wall, his arm leaning across the wall and over the board as his head stooped down to closely examine the words and images inscribed on it. Will looked towards her and smiled weakly, and Deanna felt a sudden wave of discomfiture and uneasiness flowing through her. She squinted in slight discomfort. 

“Will, are you alright? Your emotions are all over the place!”

“Riker” squirmed and squinted uncomfortably, trying to avoid her gaze. “Sorry, I just...don’t feel particularly well right now,” he admitted. There was a certain element of truth in that statement, Troi noted, but he didn’t seem to be revealing everything. Nothing she was fairly certain couldn’t be revealed through gentle coaxing, though; first Will had to be calmed from his present state of agitation. She smiled.

“Still recovering from being chased by Fae warriors? You must be getting too old for those kinds of missions, Will,” she teased. 

The gentle jab had its desired effect; Will’s tension partly seeped away as he glared at her indignantly. “I’d certainly think not,” he grumbled. “Pretty sure I’ve still got several good years left on me.” Lysandra would have thought otherwise, considering how heavy and bulky her current form was, but appearances did have to be maintained. 

Besides, _she_ wasn’t _that_ old.

Troi smiled knowingly at her companion, and took a step toward Will. “Want to talk about it in my office? You do look particularly ill.”

Riker raised his hands. “Thanks, but I think a drink would be better at the moment.”

Troi nodded. “All right. I’ll come along with you; Ensign Musiker has an appointment at 2230 hours, and I still need to get the office ready for her session.” She slipped her hand around Will’s arm and looked up to his face. “Ten-Forward?”

Lysandra paused. Whatever that meant, she was going to roll with it.

“Riker” smiled back at Troi. “Ten-Forward it is, then.”

* * *

Picard was seated in front of his desk, gazing at the three guests seated or standing in various locations in the ready room. The tray and its contents lay beside a cup of tea (Earl Grey, hot), steam still simmering from the beverage.

“No word yet from Commander Riker, Mr. Data?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, we’re going to have to begin the debriefing without him.” Picard took a brief sip from his mug and cleared this throat before continuing. “Mr. Data, I presume the local authorities had plenty of questions regarding your injury.”

“That is correct, sir.”

Picard nodded, sensing a headache approaching from the distance. “Let’s start at the very beginning of the incident. Lieutenant Musiker and Ms. Valek reported you first determined you were being trailed by an unknown pursuer. Were you able to determine who this person was?”

Data tilted his head in thought. “Yes, sir. It was a young female Fae within her twenties, who exhibited considerable skills in parkour and physical combat. She was the one who stabbed me with the weapon and personally conducted my interrogation.”

Picard raised his free hand. “We’ll get to that in a moment. Do we have a name or indication of the person’s identity or her role in Terrasen’s defences?”

Data paused, and slowly and carefully enunciated his words: “I believe she may have been the Queen of Terrasen, Aelin Galathynius.”

Utter silence reigned in the room. Picard’s face paled, and even the stoic Valek was in visible shock at the android’s revelation. Jon was first to react; in a constrained voice, the words barely coming out of his mouth: “Can you tell us, with the utmost confidence, that the person who apprehended you was none other than quite possibly the most powerful figure on the planet herself?”

Data nodded. “I can confirm that statement.” Reaching for a stray medium-sized PADD on the desk, his fingers skimmed across the screen as he established a connection between the device and a memory bank stored in his brain. The images on the PADD disappeared, to be replaced with a single projection: a sole figure striding across a wall of fire. The android froze the image, and the subject could be seen all too clearly—a woman with flowing silver hair, gleaming armor, a red-hot sword, and flowing blue capes tied to her waist.

A second image popped up beside the first one: the same woman, but in an ornate purple robe and a set of ragged, black garments, a pair of identical daggers at hand. Picard did not need to look twice to recognize the very same blade that currently lay atop his desk.

A third and final image appeared to the right of the previous one: in the Royal Palace, a long and wide canvas depicting nine finely dressed lords and ladies and kings and queens of Erliea’s kingdoms. Data zoomed in, revealing a woman at the very centre of it all, seated on a golden throne and draped with luxurious robes that sprawled down the steps and into the floor. The captain blinked, and blinked again.

He _had_ read the mission reports; he _knew_ who that woman was.

Orphaned and raised by the Assassins’ Guild as Celaena Sardothien, forced into quasi-official service for the late King of Adarlan as his fixer, and subject to unspeakable physical and psychological torture under the lately deceased Queen of Doranelle. Yet against all odds, she now sat unopposed on the throne of Terrasen, with a vast army of nations sworn to fight by her side.

She was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, Monarch of Terrasen and Faerie Queen of the West. The Queen Who Was Promised, Fire-Bringer, and Light-Bringer. A wielder of flame, the bane of gods and witches alike, and one who was said to have walked between worlds and lived to tell the tale. All of that within a mere twenty-three years of her life, Picard realised.

If the situation kept deteriorating at its current rate, Data would quite possibly be facing a court martial, if not an outright discharge from Starfleet.

Data returned the PADD to the desk, and the scientific team returned to their locations; Valek sat down on the remaining seat while Jon paced around in agitation. Picard quickly took another sip of tea, his face expressing a more subtle yet still disturbing expression of Jon’s apprehension.

“So, after the Queen stabbed you in the chest and the guards apprehended you, what happened afterwards?”

“I was escorted into a cell, and after multiple efforts to extract the weapon I was interrogated by the Queen in person.”

“Regarding?”

“Mainly how I managed to survive, and what my intentions were in the kingdom, sir. I did reveal that I was an artificial construct, but did not elaborate further. I also attempted to establish our peaceful intentions, but I doubt they believed it.”

The headache had arrived; Picard’s face was now buried deep in his hands. He rubbed his shining forehead back and forth, as if rocking on the chair to somehow articulate his sheer dismay at the turn of events. Valek spoke the obvious opinion of the organic life forms in the room: “Revealing yourself to be an artificial lifeform was a very risky maneuver, and quite possibly violated the Prime Directive.”

Data turned his eyes to focus on the desk. “The Prime Directive had already been violated when I survived what should have normally been a fatal injury. A basic explanation felt appropriate and would have been more likely to resolve the conflict within the constraints of the Directive, as compared to dodging the issue and further alienating my captors.”

It was a logical argument. Jon continued. “How did they respond to your explanation?”

“After providing sufficient evidence to support my claim, they asked whether any more iterations of me existed, and what our intentions were in Terrasen. Again, I provided a basic explanation within Directive constraints, but it appeared to have been disbelieved.”

“And afterwards, the encounter with Commander Riker and Commander La Forge occured,” said Picard.

“That appears to be the case, sir.”

Picard sighed, and paused to think. A heavy silence fell on the quartet, before the captain quickly came to a conclusion.

“Based on my initial assessment, for the most part your actions adhered to Starfleet protocol. However, I’ll need to view your recordings to verify your report, and this incident, Mr. Data will be placed on your service record. Is there any other event I should be aware of?”

Data thought carefully. “She may have seen me mid-transport, when she jumped to the street from atop the gate towers.”

Picard looked dumbly at Data, as if considering the stupidity of such an action. “That...will be placed on the record as well. Were you able to determine if she survived the drop?”

“If she was able to control a twenty-story drop from the top of the Royal Palace to the bottom of the keep using her pyrokinetic abilities, then I would assume she has the ability to survive a fall from a significantly smaller distance.”

Picard’s pause was even longer. That would explain the unusual readings in the castle earlier, and perhaps even that first image of the Queen in flames. He shrugged, “Very well, then. Considering the circumstances and how exactly _that_ particular incident occurred, I don’t think there was anything more you could have done.”

Valek suddenly spoke, leaning forward in her seat. “If the Queen of Terrasen was personally aware of our presence, she would likely warn her allies in the continent. Considering the speed of their messengers, we could see rapid mobilisation across our area of research.”

Jon nodded. “Our mission would be indefinitely postponed, and the situation in Erilea would rapidly deteriorate. We could quite possibly end up sparking another war between the different states.”

“As long as there is no further interference from us, or _any_ other group within or working with Starfleet,” Picard declared. “However, Messers Valek and Deacon, that, I believe, is a discussion best held at a different time.” A sudden weight of exhaustion came across the captain as he spoke those words, and everyone else appeared to share his mood. “Perhaps we should rest on the issue and await further developments before jumping to conclusions.”

Valek nodded. “That would be appropriate. We will return to our quarters and report for the daily briefing tomorrow morning.”

A tired smile appeared on the captain’s face. “Make it so. Commander Data, you’re dismissed.” 

Watching the three guests walk out of the room, Picard suddenly frowned. Number One never showed up for the debriefing; where the hell was he?

* * *

“Number One” stood in front of a pair of doors with Deanna on her arm, trying to mask her confusion. 

The doors opened to reveal a small, circular room the size of a closet. The walls were purple and a glowing diagram of the ship was plastered on and—

—what the Wyrd was that blue creature standing there?!

Lysandra tried not to stare at the hideous, bald biped and the frightening crevasse that traversed the entire length of his head, creating a deep ridge that made Evangeline’s scars seem like a mere blemish. For his part, the blue man didn’t respond when they walked in save for a curt, cordial greeting to “Will” and the woman on “his” arm.

Rowan obviously nabbed someone with an especially high rank, the shapeshifter reckoned. _That_ at least was one comfort she could rely on.

Deanna looked up. “Deck Ten.” The circular space suddenly shuddered, and Lysandra suddenly felt her organs rise; they were moving downwards. An audible, disembodied sound relentlessly hummed from behind the walls, and the shapeshifter’s discomfort grew. She thought she could hear the faintest of screams, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Was she descending into the depths of hell? 

Troi felt Will tensing both physically and emotionally, and pulled him closer ever so slightly for his benefit.

Perhaps this was the afterlife where devils and sprites resided to torture the souls of the damned; perhaps she could find Arobynn somewhere and give him her regards (a boot up his rear and a particular vulgar gesture would suffice, she thought). But as quickly as it came the humming ceased, and the room came to an abrupt halt. 

“Deck Ten,” the speakers blared.

The shapeshifter realised she was gripping the woman’s arm rather tightly, and released her from her grasp. She looked at Lysandra rather peculiarly, and she returned the gesture with a suitably contrite expression. “Sorry.”

“You definitely need that drink, or perhaps a very long break from the away missions, Will,” Deanna responded with a somewhat disapproving if somewhat bemused look on her face. She noted from the corner of her eye the Bolian’s very visible discomfort at the unfolding events; recognising the sky-high tensions in the confined space, the counselor decided to try and lighten the mood. Deanna smiled. “Or another therapy session with me, perhaps?”

The Bolian ensign was visibly struggling not to cringe, but Lysandra pointedly ignored him and smiled back. “Some other time—counselor,” she replied, quickly recalling the title the blue man had said.

“Oh, ‘Counselor Troi,’ now is it, ‘Commander William Riker?’” The woman’s face twisted in mock offense. “I never knew you were the formal type, First Officer!” 

Riker grinned manically, and the two left the turbolift and strolled leisurely down the hallway, arms linked together.

Yep, _definitely_ getting the hang of it.

The rest of the stroll was uneventful, apart from the countless distinctly non-human species Lys and Troi passed by. What seemed like another short-haired Fae from the distance turned out to be some badly deformed creature with ridges on his forehead. Overtaking them was another peculiar blue biped, this time with white hair and insect-like antennae. Walking around a corner was what Lysandra could have mistaken for a human, save for the astonishing wrinkles and humongous nostrils on his face, and from a nearby corridor a gigantic walking bug was fingering a glowing panel on the wall. A pair of identical bipedal cats eyed “Riker” mischievously as they walked by, but a quick yet ferocious glare from his companion wiped the flirtatious expressions off their faces. 

The shapeshifter smiled to herself as the two scurried off, but hurriedly assumed a neutral face as the counselor turned to look at him.

“Will...” she said warningly.

“What?”

“Empath, remember?”

“What?” Lys’s response was more of confusion than false innocence here.

Deanna shook her head. “Never mind. My office is this way, Ten-Forward’s that way,” she replied, waving her hands to indicate which was which.

“Riker” looked at both ends of the corridor, and turned to Troi. “You sure you don’t want that drink?”

The counselor smiled. “Some other time, perhaps. Musiker won’t be particularly happy with Barclay’s files scattered across the office.”

“Guess I’ll see you some other time, then.”

“You make it sound as if we aren’t going to be seeing each other at tomorrow’s briefing.”

“Riker” mentally shrugged. Like she was still going to be here by tomorrow, fingers crossed and gods blessing. “Who knows?” she replied, smiling teasingly.

Deanna rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Go get that drink, Will, before these delusions of yours get the better of you. And don’t forget to stop by the Ready Room before turning in; Picard’s expecting your debriefing at 2250 hours.”

At least forty minutes to explore the ship before everything went to hell, Lysandra reckoned. “Riker” smiled, nodded, and walked off towards the corridor the counselor had pointed at. A pair of maroon doors stood at the very end, sliding open to let the shapeshifter through.

Ten-Forward appeared to be a small rectangular room, yet it lacked the muskiness and trappings of a regular tavern. As in the rest of the vessel, there was a visible lack of wooden furniture and paraphernalia in the room; all the seats and tables were made out of a certain firm metal with the former covered by a synthetic fabric, giving the place an air of luxury. There were not a lot of patrons at the moment, considering how late it currently was; the few people present mainly clustered around a bracket-shaped bar, where a dark-skinned woman with flowing blue robes and a majestic round hat to boot took their orders. The shapeshifter's eyes turned from the room towards the window, and her eyes widened.

Lysandra stared not at the abyss, but at the stars dotting the infinite beyond.

Erliea lay before her on a large blue marble, shining brightly against the void. Mala Fire-Bringer glowed in the distance, while Deanna lent her comforting warmth to the countless denizens sleeping in their homes below. And the stars—one for every soul, one for every world—twinkled throughout the sky as they called for their loved ones for ever and ever and ever.

Everything she knew, everyone she loved, everyone and everything that made up the countless pieces of her life, was all encapsulated in a single round dot in a vast, cold universe. Lysandra slowly paced towards the window, transfixed at the sight as her mind struggled to take it all in. 

A minute passed.

A small cough shook her from her trance; she turned to find the finely-dressed woman by her side looking at her expectantly. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

Lysandra shook her head, just as much as to turn down the offer as to regain her senses. “No, but thank you, anyway.”

The woman tilted her head and smiled. “They usually need one after seeing the whole thing for the first time. Impressive view, isn’t it?”

 _First time?_

Lysandra slowly, carefully turned towards the stranger. “How did you—” she started, looking up and down at her in barely concealed alarm. 

“Who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Bodysnatchers!


	6. Bodysnatchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysandra and her host try to sort things out.

The woman smiled as she raised her hands placatingly, and gracefully lowered herself onto a seat. “My name is Guinan. I tend to the bar, and I listen. After many years at the job, I’ve learned to notice quite a few things. Among other things,” she paused, “I’ve learned to notice when some of those things don’t quite match up.”

She knew? 

Lysandra remained silent. A waiter stopped beside Guinan, carrying a circular tray with a pair of small glasses and an oddly shaped jug with a strange, green liquid. The bartender nodded to her assistant and placed the tray on the table, pouring some of the jug’s contents into a glass. “Want some?”

Lysandra shook her head. Guinan shrugged, and took a sip. “So, what brings you aboard the _Enterprise_?” she inquired, looking back at the shapeshifter.

Warily eying the bartender, Lysandra found another seat and slowly planted herself atop, placing an arm on the table and an elbow to the side. “Riker” retained Riker’s appearance—no need to completely blow her cover just yet, and Lysandra was fairly certain this woman was the only one aware of her true identity. She eyed the woman keenly; Guinan’s face was that of a middle-aged human, yet her cool, genteel eyes spoke volumes of the countless years behind them.

“Why are you and your people here?”

“Oh, these people are not my people. My people are somewhere far away,” Guinan noted with a hint of melancholy in her eyes, “and I’m just the bartender on this vessel.”

“But you do know why this…” Lysandra gesticulated in the air, “...thing is here, don’t you?”

Guinan’s warm smile widened as she recalled the _Enterprise’s_ numerous dalliances with the Prime Directive from years past, and rested her head on her right hand in contemplation. “The same thing they do for every other planet: beam to the surface, have a look around, and understand why things work as they are. And from what I hear, this isn’t the first time the Federation’s paid a visit.”

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

_Oh_ , no. 

The shapeshifter leaned forward in alarm. “They’ve been here before?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the bartender replied, raising her hands to the table in a mollifying gesture. “The Federation isn’t the type to mess with local affairs—not as often as the Romulans or Cardassians would, at the very least, and I don’t think _they’ve_ ever come here in the first place. You’re from the surface, aren’t you?”

Lysandra paused. A ploy, a stratagem to force her hand and expose her before the crew? What would happen then? A denial would be a tacit confirmation, and an explicit confirmation would well and truly blow her cover. What then? The shapeshifter had yet to figure out a way to get back to Orynth, and she figured it would be much easier to figure a route home without a horde of angry soldiers on her heels. Perhaps with the bartender as a hostage, she could arrange for something—a transport, some favorable diplomatic terms for Aelin, or perhaps at the very least a gods-damned explanation for what the Wyrd was happening.

A hostage situation wouldn’t exactly give the best of first impressions, but the “Federation” hadn’t exactly been congenial in its own conduct, either.

A group of men and women walked into the room, carrying several small metal cases. Strolling to the other side of the room, they nodded to the bartender and began pulling out several oddly-shaped instruments. Lysandra observed them from the corner of her eye, and looked back at Guinan.

“Terrasen.”

“Ah…” Guinan raised her eyebrows, nodding her head in understanding. “That would explain a lot. I presume the Queen’s curious why an android popped up on her doorstep before promptly vanishing without a trace?”

“Among other things, yes.”

Guinan shifted in her seat. “The Federation doesn’t like revealing itself to less advanced cultures; it’s a lot less trouble for either side. Considering what’s happened when some pre-warp culture prematurely figures out they’re not alone in the universe, it’s a generally effective solution; if someone does see anything out of the ordinary, there are plenty of more sensible explanations for what they’ve seen.”

“And if enough people see something that’s definitely not ordinary?”

“Sometimes a mind wipe does the trick. Other times, the issue resolves itself; they come back screaming murder, no one believes them or can’t find anything to prove their claims, and eventually everything settles back into legend and folklore. By the time the Federation returns, all that’s left is a mere tale to be told over a drink or two.”

“And suppose the Queen of Terrasen herself was this person? I’m fairly certain her word wouldn’t be as easily discredited.”

Guinan paused, before she gave an acknowledging shrug. “Well, then I do think we have a problem.” 

“Which brings me to my current predicament. Not only do I need to find my way back home, but I need something concrete to give Aelin—proof regarding your motives, benevolent or not. And if I can’t get what I want peacefully…”

Lysandra’s fingernails began extending into black, jagged claws, mimicking Manon’s digits whenever she was royally peeved. She rested her head on her right hand, giving Guinan a clear view; the bartender raised her eyebrow, nonplussed. 

“I’d appreciate it if a shapeshifter didn’t go about wrecking my bar,” Guinan responded in a mildly irritated tone. “Not that I wouldn’t have been able to handle it myself.” 

“You know I’m a shapeshifter?”

Guinan gave Lysandra a judging look, gesturing towards her own forehead.

“And you know I could transform into anything in an instant?”

“Yes, I’m very much aware of that.”

“And you’re not concerned?”

“A bit, but not enough to call security.”

Lysandra stared disbelievingly. Either this woman was bluffing, or she had a _lot_ of nerve to face a veteran of the war like her. “Really, now?”

“I’m an El-Aurian. Nine senses, eight hundred years of experience, and quite a few tricks of my own up my sleeve. If you were a Changeling from the Dominion, I would have sensed and outed you long before we even left Utopia Planitia.”

“Oh?”

“What I’m sensing from you only came less than half an hour ago; considering the circumstances, it wasn’t so hard to figure out your identity and possible motives aboard the _Enterprise._ It’s a small vessel, even for these newfangled Sovereigns, after all.”

A burst of laughter from another table momentarily held Lysandra’s attention; looking around, she realized her surroundings had dramatically changed.

In the several minutes since Lysandra entered and the fascinating conversation between the two women began, Ten-Forward had filled up considerably; most if not all of the tables were now occupied by an eager gathering, and Lysandra noted several disgruntled (but no less enthused) officers in uniform milling around the bar and the doors at the edge of the room. Her eyes gazed at the sea of scarlet, amber, and azure, before resting upon the stage on the far end. The instruments had been assembled, revealing a set of oddly sized drums and cymbals, four guitars, and a set of peculiarly small keyboards on a folding frame. Emerging from the paraphernalia, a middle-aged man with a wild beard and greying hair tied into a ponytail weaved his way through the crowd towards the two women. Reaching them, he bowed curtly to Lysandra before turning to Guinan.

“Ms. Guinan, we’ve set up the equipment. Should we start the show?”

“Go ahead.”

The man nodded in acknowledgment and walked back to the other side of the room. Lysandra watched as he reached for a guitar on the ground; oddly, there wasn’t any hole underneath the strings, and the frame was adorned with a set of curvaceous crescents along the side. The musician began strumming a steady, melodic tune, and after two consecutive bars his companions joined in, one by one. 

The sounds were familiar and the melody arresting, but to Lysandra the composition was as alien as the vessel itself.

As the band played their craft and their audience began to cheer, the bartender looked back at the shapeshifter. “I can get the captain here to talk with you, give a more thorough explanation, or maybe even make a peace offering for your queen.” 

Lysandra frowned. “I thought you said you were just a bartender?”

That enigmatic smile returned. “Jean-Luc and I go back a long way. A _very_ long way, in fact.”

* * *

“Guinan to Picard.”

Picard irritably looked up from his PADD as the bartender’s voice and the din in Ten-Forward broke the peaceful lull in the room. “Picard here.”

“Could you come to Ten Forward, please? I would like to have a word with you.”

“Guinan, can this—”

“I think it’s a matter of grave importance, Jean-Luc. You had better hurry here.”

The captain sighed wearily. “All right, I’ll be heading down there in a moment.”

Setting aside his PADD on the desk—the revised schedule wasn’t getting anywhere anyway, Picard was quietly forced to admit—the captain made his way across the room to the doors, and quickly strolled along the side of the bridge towards the turbolift.

“Deck Ten.”

By Federation standards, a civilian like Guinan would appear to wield far more influence than deemed appropriate on a Starfleet captain, let alone the commanding officer of such an advanced and distinguished vessel to carry the moniker of _Enterprise_. Yet after years of experience in the fringes of outer space, Picard had learned to know when to trust the El-Aurian’s instincts. If Guinan told you something was a matter of grave importance, you knew all too damn well it was not something you could simply ignore.

Reaching Deck Ten, the captain strided through the hallways as the occasional officer quickly scrambled aside. The doors at the end of the corridor opened, and the vivid sounds of music and merriment burst out as Picard walked in. Ten-Forward was filled to the brim with patrons, all cheering for the band as they finished another number from the setlist; Picard faintly recalled some classical music troupe playing music from the late twenty and early twenty-first centuries had been booked for the night. Scanning the crowd, the captain quickly spotted the bartender from the oversized paraphernalia she wore on her head; she was seated on her favorite chair in front of a small table, with a medium-sized jug and a pair of used glasses on top. Directly opposite her was a small figure in woven garments; upon closer scrutiny Picard recognized the clothes as those worn by Riker before he beamed down to the surface. 

But the wearer was not the familiar bearded American Picard had come to regard as a friend through the years. Rising to meet his gaze was a tall woman with flowing auburn hair and sharp, narrow green eyes. 

Quickly surmising what had happened, Picard simply sighed and turned to Guinan. 

“ _C’est la vie_.”

“So it would seem.” Guinan gestured towards her companion. “Captain, may I present to you Lady Lysandra Ashryver of Caraverre, associate of the Queen of Terrasen? Lady Ashryver, Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation vessel _Enterprise_.”

“Welcome aboard the _Enterprise,_ Lady Caraverre. I take it my first officer is on the surface?”

* * *

Riker’s eyes struggled to penetrate the hazy blur in his vision as he slowly regained consciousness, grimacing in pain as his hand shifted to the bruise on the back of his head. As his eyesight cleared, he chanced a glance at his surroundings.

Will found himself bound to a chair in a small and damp cell; if he knew better, he was in the same cell Data had been previously incarcerated in. He didn’t need to turn his head to know the cell window had likely been reinforced following Data’s stunt, or that a burly soldier now stood guard to forestall any attempt at another escape.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

A male Fae was seated directly opposite of him. Garbed in silver armor, the dim light from the torches silhouetted his tall frame and drew narrow orange lines across his shoulder plates. Riker could now see all too clearly the rancorous glare on the Fae’s face, a sentiment clearly shared by the young woman on his side. He felt a pair of hands rest firmly on his shoulders, and he sensed the large chest of another towering figure behind him.

A terrifying smile emerged on the Fae’s lips, and a shiver ran down the Starfleet officer.

“We’ve checked, and unlike your android friend you appear to be human. But just to be sure—”

Riker’s view was instantly obscured by a humongous fist. His chair tilted dangerously backwards as the space between his eyes screamed with pain. Amidst the flying blood, he faintly glimpsed the man behind him: another Fae, this time with silver hair and swirling facial tattoos. The man pushed his hands forward, and Riker found himself upright once more; the younger Fae was wiping his hands with a look of visible, cathartic satisfaction.

His head rang unceasingly, and his breaths were heavy and labored as he struggled to breathe through his shattered nose. Will was fairly certain his own blood was trickling down his face, but he was barely lucid enough to notice.

The interrogator stared at the miserable wreck of a human, tilting his head disparagingly. “I could kill you right here, right now, but we still need you to answer a few more questions. First thing’s first—”

He suddenly shot forward, grabbing the prisoner by the lapels and dragging him—chair and all—onto the table in a loud, scraping sound. Riker could see the fury in the Fae’s eyes, and—if he was not mistaken—a hint of desperation and fear.

_“Where is my wife?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ring any bells?
> 
> Headcanon: the Dominion never managed to infiltrate the _Enterprise_ throughout the war while Guinan remained aboard the ship.
> 
> When writing this chapter, I was of the opinion that the band was playing [”Knives Out.”](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=2Lpw3yMCWro) After reading the [lyrics](https://genius.com/Radiohead-knives-out-lyrics), though:
> 
> _Lysandra whirled to Guinan in shock. “They’re singing about cannibalism?!”_
> 
> _The bartender shrugged. “Apparently, it’s allegorical.”_
> 
> Up next: The Numbers!


	7. The Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The word spreads across Erilea as the condemned awaits his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another trip across the continent! Characters may be slightly out of character, which probably means I need to read the books and corresponding fanfiction more often.
> 
> Onwards!

A Ruk streaked across the night sky, its rider gazing down unflinchingly at the city of Rifthold as the lights continued to glow below. Even beyond the midnight bell with the curfew now in force, the city’s inhabitants continued to intermingle in their various dwellings—the smoke from the smithies continued to pour out of the smokestacks, and the droning of priests at the major temples could be faintly heard in the distance. Shaking his head at the clergymen’s endurance—evening prayers at this time of the year often lasted literally the entire evening—the messenger aimed his winged ride in the direction of Adarlan’s more secular institutions.

The guards atop the reconstructed castle saw the two approach from the mountains and quickly scrambled aside as the creature—bearing the markings of Terrasen—touched down atop the keep with a great thud. Emerging from the stairs on a corner of the roof, an armored soldier whose swirling, thick beard vastly compensated for his shaven hair ran across to the disembarking messenger. The latter took off his helmet, revealing a middle-aged man with neatly combed hair and a carefully trimmed and somewhat thinner beard.

“Morning, guv. What brings you to Adarlan in the middle of the night?”

“Urgent news, I’m afraid. I’ve got some tidings to bring to the King himself.”

“Eh, I’m afraid you can’t see him at the moment, sire. He’s busy.”

“Well, tell him it’s urgent!”

“He’s with the Crochan Queen.”

The messenger abruptly paused. Dorian Havilliard and Manon Blackbeak’s relationship was an open secret throughout Rifthold, and it was common knowledge that one interrupted a “meeting” between the two at their own peril. He scratched his head, partly to relieve an irritating itch and partly to think of a possible loophole. His conclusion: “Well, shite.”

The guard shrugged sympathetically. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait till morning, sire. Unless it’s a matter of grave importance, you know very well what’ll happen if you force your way in.”

“Well, it could very well  _ be  _ a matter of grave importance, ‘could’ being the operative word. The Queen herself didn’t seem sure of it when she relayed to me the message. Isn’t there anyone else I could give this letter to?”

As the messenger fumbled at his rucksack for his precious cargo, the guard thought intently. An epiphany struck the latter as the former silently read the addressees inscribed on the envelope, and the guard looked up at his companion. “We could try reaching out to—”

“Him?” asked the messenger, gesturing towards the second recipient.

_ In case his magnanimous holiness is currently ensnared by that witch girlfriend of his, give this message to— _

The messenger looked up. “Isn’t he with his wife in the outskirts of town?”

His companion grinned amusedly. “Heh. Knowing him, these days he won’t be doing anything nearly as pleasurable. Not anytime soon, at the very least.” 

* * *

After a long and busy day at the castle grounds, Chaol was starting to envy Dorian with his unobstructed lifestyle and frequent trysts with Manon.

His shift had been unusually strenuous: several scruffles had broken out during the procession of delegates from Ellywe, and the captain had found himself scrambling halfway across Rifthold after a pickpocket with unusually long legs. A dozen other petty thefts and nuisances had been reported and taken care of, leaving the overburdened Chaol with a heap of paperwork to fill out and file. Upon returning home and discovering Dorian taking up the entire couch with little Sorscha in his arms, a weary Chaol simply gave the mischievous king a homicidal glower until Manon arrived to drag his liege away.

With Dorian dispatched, Sorscha settled on the crib, and Little Dorian sent off to bed (milk, bedtime story, and all), Chaol had seized the rare opportunity to sink into the cushions, feeling the stress of the day slowly seep away from his mind. With Yrene by his side, one thing led to another; Chaol soon found himself shirtless atop their marriage bed, showering his wife with a sea of kisses.

A petulant wail from the living room abruptly put paid to Chaol’s plans for a long and pleasant round of lovemaking; he now sat bleary-eyed on his couch—fully clothed—glaring at the miniscule killjoy snoozing in his arms. 

A rap at the door shook him from his self-pitying soliloquy; looking up, he sighed and rose to his feet, walking to the entrance while making sure not stirr Sorscha awake. The door swung open, and the two men outside instinctively stepped back after seeing the captain’s deranged expression. Chaol stared at them expectantly, his depraved disposition glowing like wildfire and flames within his eyes.

_ “Well?” _

“...should we come back in the morning?” the guard asked.

“Since you’ve pretty much woken me up, you might as well tell me what you want, Captain Frost.”

The messenger turned to look at the guard; he shrugged back in response. Turning back to Chaol, the guard replied, “We’ve received a messenger from the Queen of Terrasen. Apparently it’s urgent business, but the King’s otherwise engaged.”

“I’d bet,” Chaol muttered bitterly. “And what brings you here?”

The guard turned to the messenger, who quickly responded, “Her Royal Highness specified that you were to receive the message should the King be busy.” Bowing deeply, he extended a small envelope to the King’s Hand.

It was well past midnight, but Chaol still had the courtesy to courteously accept the offering in a manner vaguely approaching courteousness. Chuckling despite himself at Aelin’s  _ very  _ specific instructions, he broke her royal seal and pulled out the letter from the envelope. He read the neatly written words—

—and abruptly froze.

No longer half asleep, Chaol slowly turned to the messenger. “Lieutenant Pegg, isn’t it?”

The messenger nodded.

“Thank you for coming here. I’ll see to it Dorian receives this message personally, but be prepared to receive a royal audience tomorrow morning, just in case. Mr. Frost, muster the guard and see to it Mr. Pegg here is provided some quarters to spend the night.”

The guard started. “Is it that serious, my lord?”

Chaol warily eyed the letter’s contents. “It appears our day, as long as it has been, is far from over, Captain.”

* * *

Dorian buried his head into his hands. “And why exactly didn’t you tell me this earlier, Chaol?”

“You were busy.” 

The King scowled at his Hand.

* * *

“Very well, consider me convinced.”

Lysandra leaned back as Picard sighed in relief, his diplomatic explanation regarding the  _ Enterprise’s  _ motives more or less paying off. With the shapeshifter’s consent, Valek and Jon had joined the trio to back up Picard’s main points and now sat alongside them; Valek was sandwiched between Picard and Guinan, while Jon squatted nervously between the bartender and the shapeshifter. Around them the bar patrons continued to listen intently to the band, cheering for every new number.

Hardly spies, her foot. For all their flashy lights and dubious misdeeds, these “Federation” people were nothing more than glorified sightseers. Powerful sightseers, but sightseers all the same.

The Vulcan nodded in approval. “That does resolve part of our problems. However, it does pose several new ones.”

Picard’s face returned to its serious expression. “The fact that a shapeshifter managed to infiltrate this vessel as Commander Riker poses a significant security risk. Considering the state of relations with the Dominion, it’s something we can’t afford.”

Jon tilted his head, thinking carefully. “Suppose we were to ask you to assist Lieutenant Daniels in some security drills—”

Lysandra gave the human a flat stare. “No.”

The captain shook his head, a disapproving glare pointed at the scientist. “Lady Caraverre may be an unexpected guest, but as a guest aboard this vessel she remains; as such, we will give her the same treatment you and your team are afforded, Mr. Hartford. Having said that, I believe we are in need of your help in recovering Commander Riker from the surface.”

Lysandra raised an eyebrow; “help” meant a lot of things, plenty of which the woman was not altogether willing to provide. “Suppose I refuse?”

Picard eyed the table glumly. “Should you be unwilling to help us, we’ll proceed to rescue Riker ourselves and return you to the planet’s surface immediately afterwards. We’ll have recovered all of our personnel, and you’ll be able to relay the information regarding the  _ Enterprise _ to your Queen, and no one will be the wiser.”

The shapeshifter smirked. “You really don’t get who you’re going up against, do you? With one of your men having already escaped Aelin’s clutches, she won’t be as eager to part with your first officer; I’d bet my life that you’d simply lose another man trying to get him out. And by trying to break him out of Orynth, you aren’t exactly giving much of an impression of benevolent explorers, either.”

She had a point, Picard was forced to admit. As of the moment, the only evidence they had to persuade the Queen of their peaceful intentions was Lysandra’s word—not exactly the most reliable of sources, considering the circumstances regarding her disappearance—which could be altogether negated by another breakout attempt. And with the ramifications of further cultural contamination…

“How much disruption has been caused by our presence?”

Lysandra’s lips curled upwards in a half-decent impression of Aelin’s signature smirk. “We’ve sent messengers to all our allies requesting information or the immediate arrest for a group of...certain individuals in relation to the man-made being named Data.”

Picard paled.

* * *

Perched alongside a cliff overlooking the ocean, Briarcliff’s precarious position made it difficult for invaders to reach, let alone besiege, and its isolated location beyond the Fenrian Gap meant few people could easily travel to the settlement without risking the unpleasant weather and hostile witches and bandits on either side. The handful of people that risked the journey often relied on boats from the Deserted Land or relied on the newfangled Ruks to outrun the odd Wyvern through the Western Wastes; occasionally, a winged creature bearing the colors of Adarlan or Terrasen would be spotted over the horizon, often bringing travellers and news from the other side of the continent.

Standing atop Briarcliff’s highest tower, the new guard wasn’t entirely sure of the approaching beast’s allegiance nor that of its rider.

A vast, eagle-like creature was screaming through the countryside at several dozen kilometers per hour, forcing gales of wind through its massive feathery wings and sending the hats of farmers below flying. The guard squinted through his borrowed eyeglass, making out what appeared to be a pair of flags tied to each wing; what were those symbols?

A sharp voice barked from behind him: “What’s taking so long, soldier?”

He gritted his teeth. “That bloody bird needs to stop flapping its wings so I can see what the hell those flags are!”

“Well, hurry up then!”

The guard squinted. A bronze Wyvern on a red plane; a stag’s head imposed upon emerald green? He paused, and started.

“Well?”

“It’s a friendly!”

A blare from a curved tusk reverberated across the coast, rousing the city from its sleepy stupor; a field in the edge of town rapidly emptied as the Ruk descended, its claws burrowing deep into the earth. A small figure clad in leather garments emerged from the behemoth of feathers, and waved a brown envelope towards the horsemen rapidly approaching from across the block.

Bureaucracy in Briarcliff was considerably faster than anywhere else in the continent, presumably because there was hardly anything to bureaucratize in such a desolate place. Within fifteen minutes a small procession had been arranged and now slowly proceeded through the streets towards their destination: a vast stone mansion perched upon a tall mound in the center of town with a clear view of the surrounding landscape.

The doors of the Great Hall swung open as the messenger and his guards swept into the room, robes and cloaks flowing as the wind rushed in from outside. Reaching the steps before the throne, the group lowered themselves into the stone floor, perching upon one knee as they lowered their heads in deference towards the chair’s occupant—a ginger-haired woman with sharp brown eyes and neatly polished armor.

Ansel of Briarcliff, Queen of the Western Wastes, stood up and walked towards the messenger, who kept his head down while he extended his hand; a white envelope with the Queen of Terrasen’s seal rested upon it. Nodding in acknowledgment, she pulled the envelope from the messenger’s grasp and watched as the troupe silently retreated from the room. 

The seal was broken and the flap opened, revealing a clean parchment and several smaller sheets of paper. Ansel’s face betrayed no emotion as she read Aelin’s message written on the parchment.

_ —specifically, I need to know if you or anyone in the kingdom’s heard of a weird, pale-skinned man called Data. We caught the guy wandering around Orynth looking for some old buildings in the city; the bastard somehow managed to survive getting disemboweled and is now sitting nonchalantly in a cell with my favorite dagger sticking out of his chest. He claims to be some kind of mechanical construct, but how he works and functions despite what should have killed him is anyone’s guess. _

_ Long story short: I think he might be a spy or weapon of some kind, but I need some more information to be sure. Also, try and see if you can find anything regarding his companions (perfectly normal people, thank the gods) who are currently nowhere to be found; I’ve got some basic sketches in the envelope, assuming the messenger hasn’t dropped the gods-damned things along the way. Dorian, Rolfe, Manon, and Sartaq should be getting the same sketches within the week. _

_ With luck, His Royal Buzzardness and yours truly might just be merely dealing with a bunch of cocky ruffians here; if not, we could be dealing with some new power in the region. Just a little heads up, to be safe. _

_ Incidentally, a new shipment of— _

Slowly filing the message back into the envelope, the Queen of Briarcliff maintained her composure as she rose from her throne and strided out of the room, her shining armour glinting in the sunlight. Her back turned to the guards and couriters, an amused snigger suddenly burst out, erupting into peals of laughter.

What the  _ Wyrd  _ had Aelin gotten herself into this time?

* * *

A rap on the door stirred Rolfe from his drunken stupor. Hazily eying the door from the surface of his desk, the captain grimaced.

“What?” Sharp, angry, clear, yet precise. Quite surprising, considering how strong that last bottle was…

“Messenger from Terrasen just flew in fifteen minutes ago. Got a letter from the Queen; it’s for your eyes only.”

Another Ruk? Those bloody birds were going to put his ships out of business at this rate. Squinting his eyes and quickly flexing his jaw muscles, Rolfe rubbed the crumbs out of his beard and took a moment to straighten himself up before letting his flunkey into his office. Curtly nodding to his boss, the young man made no comment on Rolfe’s disheveled appearance as he quickly handed the paper envelope and left. Rolfe keenly eyed the envelope in his hand—bearing the seal of Terrasen and the trimmings and embellishments personally sketched by its Queen, there was no questioning the authenticity of the letter inside. He broke the seal, drew out a small folded sheet and examined its contents.

_ To Captain Rolfe, _

Opening greetings, wishes for his continued health (sarcastic, no doubt), reaffirmation of good diplomatic relations between Terrasen, Adarlan, and Mycenia, blah blah blah. Apart from the usual diplomatic hodgepodge and crap, the Queen of Terrasen had made a pressing inquiry for information regarding an unusual character; if Rolfe was not mistaken, she was asking him to find anyone capable of making a human being out of a pile of tools and machines. Alongside the query was a request for the arrest of several notable individuals—a few humans, one female Fae with a ridiculously short haircut—to be immediately repatriated to Terrasen for questioning regarding said not-human.

What?

He felt the compelling urge to laugh; the scenario  _ was  _ laughable. The Pirate Lord constantly kept a close eye on all the characters of Skull’s Bay, and he knew all too well none of them were capable of crafting a living being other than through the one ordinary way. Most of them seemed to excel at it, too, if the day’s problems had been any indication. 

Technically, Rolfe and his people were not allied or beholden to Terrasen and its friends; it was within his right to ignore the message and chuck it in the bin. But the Pirate Lord could sense the urgency in Aelin’s words, and was very much unwilling to risk a repeat of the Ship-Breaker incident. Or the sea dragon incident. Or the Valg incident. Or worse.

Besides, Rolfe never did like having spies in his territory.

Grabbing the bottle for another swig, Captain Rolfe, Lord of Illium, Heir of the Mycenians, and Pirate Lord of Skull’s Bay stumbled out of the congested office, his sobriety very much in question but his intent as clear as day.

* * *

A rap at the bedroom door jolted Lorcan awake. Carefully extracting himself from Elide’s embrace, the dark-haired Fae stumbled across the floor, methodically searching for his garments among the discarded pile scattered across the carpet, before heading towards the door. A young guard stood at the other side, nervously awaiting his liege.

“My lord, a Wyvern has arrived from Orynth. A messenger came with it bearing a letter addressed to you, sir.”

Lorcan looked around. “Where is it?”

The guard started, and quickly turned to his pouch; extracting a rumpled envelope, he handed it to Lorcan as he replied, “Here, sir.”

Grunting in acknowledgment, Lorcan quickly authenticated the envelope before unceremoniously ripping it open and pulling out its contents. A string of inaudible murmurs drafted through the evening air, before being suddenly cut short.

Lorcan turned his head. “I’ve been summoned to Orynth for duty to the Crown.”

The guard straightened his posture. “Shall I arrange for yours and Lady Perranth’s things, my lord?”

The Fae shook his head. “No, I’ll pack them myself. Get the horses ready.” Nodding, the guard strode off towards the stables as Lorcan shut the door behind him. 

Fully awake, the Fae wasted no time in relighting the oil lamps as he began rummaging through the closets and drawers for things he and Elide needed—clothes, daggers, weapons, bandages—while his wife somehow continued to snore on the bed. Thanks to her meticulous organising of the household items, within a matter of minutes Lorcan had prepared a pair of suitcases for the trip; his part done, he tiptoed towards the bed and gently nudged his wife.

“Elide.”

Nothing.

Lorcan tapped her again. “Elide.”

Elide softly murmured in her sleep, but remained in the land of dreams.

Smiling despite himself, Lorcan’s nudges became firmer and more frequent. “Elide, wake up.”

Elide lightly moaned, and stirred. “What is it?” she faintly mumbled, her head still implanted face first onto the pillow.

“Elide, Aelin summoned me to Orynth on official business. It’s urgent, and we need to leave now.”

A wave of silence greeted him, and within a few seconds a faint snore suggested Lady Lorchan had returned to the land of dreams. Lorcan shook his head, partly in irritation and in amusement at his wife.

“Elide!”

Still half-asleep, Elide groaned and shifted. Unexpectedly, she reached and pulled Lorcan onto the mattress, muttering something incomprehensible before returning to her daily cycle of snorts and snores. Somehow, her grip on her husband remained as firm as ever, effectively pinning him to the bed; Lorcan shook his head at his wife’s languidness as he quickly thought of how to extricate himself from the situation. Aelin was rather supportive of the couple despite Lorcan being…well, Lorcan, but even the old warrior was fairly certain the Queen was looking for a good excuse to send him off on some insanely difficult, whimsical, and borderline suicidal assignment if he was as much as a second late to her summons. 

An idea occurred to Lorcan.

* * *

“My lord, we’ve…sir?”

Lorcan glared at the guard from earlier who had the requested horse at hand, as if daring him to comment at the sight before him. Neither he nor the rest of the detachment assigned to escort the Lord of Perranth and his wife seemed to have the heart to take up his offer.

Elide had been slung over Lorcan’s shoulder, her arms and head swaying precariously along his back. Paying no attention to her unusual posture, Elide shifted her arms and snuggled comfortably in place as she continued to snore, a content smile growing upon her face. 

She was still snoring as the horses began to ride out of the castle.

* * *

“Terrasen’s army has been mobilised for a war, and Adarlan, Briarcliff, and the Witch Kingdom will very likely do the same. I’d also expect Aelin’s messengers to reach Doranelle and the Southern Continent within the week.”

Jon sighed. “That’s exactly what we feared.”

“Suppose we tried a diplomatic approach? If we could talk directly to the Queen of Terrasen, perhaps we could persuade her to have the kingdom and its allies stand down,” Picard mused. 

“You’d have to return to Orynth as soon as possible, and bring me along as well,” Lysandra noted, running her hand through a few loose strands of hair blocking her vision. “We generally don’t take kindly to people who simply pop out of nowhere and disappear without a trace, let alone when they end up forcibly bringing our own folk with them. Aelin and her cadre will likely be turning Terrasen inside out in search for me, and having me with you will in all likelihood give you a more favorable audience. She’s going to be rutting quick about it; all our best warriors and trackers will be summoned to Orynth and will be in the field by sunrise. No single pebble in Terrasen will be left unturned, and a lot of alarm bells will start ringing if she doesn’t find anything of value throughout her realm.”

“She won’t find anything,” Picard affirmed.

“Then you’ll need to be quick with how you respond. The Queen isn’t one to pay much attention to your fancy words and high-minded ideals; her main objective will always be the safety of her people, and every action she takes will go towards that goal. She’ll have your friend as a final bargaining chip, and trust me when I say Aelin will use him for what he’s worth until the very point she decides she can’t get anything more from him. And then, she’ll simply…” Lysandra let her raised right hand fall limp onto the table, “...dispose of him.” 

She shook her head in resignation. “Remind me again why I’m even bothering to help you?”

Picard’s face was firm. “Because no one on either side wants this scenario to get any worse than it already is. Therefore, we need you—we are  _ begging  _ you—to help us find a peaceful resolution for everyone in this encounter.”

The shapeshifter sighed and nodded. “Right, then. I’d recommend we leave for Orynth well before sunrise. If you can’t convince Aelin of your peaceful intentions by then, then no amount of honeyed words will do anything to spare your companion from the fate that awaits him.”

Picard vaguely knew what was coming, but he needed to hear it spoken out loud. “What fate, exactly?”

Lysandra’s expression was devoid of emotion, her voice cold and unplacating. “The fate of all traitors and spies in the kingdom: to be brought in chains to the Great Mall and executed for sedition and high treason.”

* * *

The clang of the prison cell stirred Riker from a dreamless and fitful state of semi-consciousness, muttering something vaguely incomprehensible to himself.

“Get up.” 

Loud, deep, with authority. 

“Get up,” the voice repeated. A command.

Quickly mentally feeling his limbs and appendages to confirm they were still there, Riker then used them to prop himself up, slowly but surely rising to his feet. Several bruises, a broken nose, and likely a concussion, but thankfully no broken bones or missing organs; the human widened his eyelids for a clearer view, seeing the person talking to him for the first time.

Yet another tall, muscular male Fae was eying him dispassionately from the cell door. This particular specimen was garbed completely in black, his hair cut short and his huge frame giving off a disturbing aura of doom; a humongous sword was strapped to his back, the steel hilt left bare and barren without the frills and trimmings common among Fae blades. Riker shivered, realising the man before him was his executioner.

The Fae looked up and down at Riker. “So  _ you  _ are the spy,” he said.

Riker was silent as he stood in front of him with the height and authority as befitting of a Starfleet officer. If he was going to die here, he was going to go with whatever dignity he had remaining.

As if reading his mind, the Fae turned away and shook his head in what seemed to be a hint of pity. “No, I’m not killing you here. I’m supposed to bring you to the Grand Mall, where you’ll be publicly executed.”

In spite of himself, Riker shuddered. He was to be beheaded in front of the entire population of Orynth, and his companions on the  _ Enterprise _ were going to get a front-row view. Will recalled the fate of medieval Earth’s fellow condemned—the two princes of the Tower of London smothered and stuffed into a box, Henry VIII’s wives divorced and unceremoniously beheaded, and the countless heads of nameless men and women impaled on spears and held aloft on the ramparts and castle walls as examples to the rest. Riker knew of the dangers and risks of his profession, but a part of him had hoped his career would have ended on less ignominious terms.

The two, accompanied by a small group of guards, marched through the hallways of the dungeon. Gradually, the walls became cleaner, the floors more lustrous, and the furniture grander and more valuable in appearance. The first open windows suddenly came into view, flashing the orange morning light into Will’s eyes and blinding him for a moment; several other guards had similar reactions to the sudden change in environment, raising their free arms to block the sun’s glare.

They were nearing the edge of the building, and soon came down a circular staircase towards a pair of wooden doors. A pair of guards stood on either side, and reached for the handles to fling the exit open.

The group walked out into a vast cobblestone courtyard surrounded by a large stone building with small windows on either side and a large blue roof on top. Directly opposite them was the way out—a small, narrow tunnel going underneath the building, with a small passageway with white pillars running above it. The dark hole leaving the castle was a tantalising hint at freedom, but the heavily armed guards quickly quashed any hope of escape. At the center of the square was a wooden carriage, the cart itself arranged into a cage meant to hold up to six prisoners; a fine maroon stallion was attached to the wheeled vehicle, standing at the ready. 

The Fae nodded to the guards, who quickly produced some rope and began binding Riker’s wrists and ankles to limit his movement. Two more men grabbed him by the armpits, and hurled him into the cart, ignoring his grunts of pain as he crashed into the crates inside. Slamming the doors shut, the Fae then stuffed a lock through a gap between the bars, twisting and turning the contraption round as he tried to get it locked. While the carriage shifted as the executioner muttered to himself in irritation, Riker shuffled his legs and posterior onto a wooden plank that served as a bench. His head leaning upon the bars, the vibrations gently rattled his head; Will suddenly felt a wave of drowsiness sweep upon him.

Forty-eight hours ago, William Riker was aboard an interstellar vessel exploring the mysteries of space and time. Now, badly bruised and beaten, he was going to be decapitated by a pre-warp culture for being a suspected spy.

The Fae had evidently sorted out the lock and was mounting his horse; the carriage began to bounce, creak, and shudder as it threaded its way along the cobblestones towards the exit, flanked in the rear by a pair of cavalry. The morning sounds of Orynth began to trickle from the distance, coming closer and closer and closer; Riker could faintly hear the sound of the market at the Grand Plaza where it had all begun, where the vendors were beginning to hawk their wares.

Will wondered if Geordi and Data had managed to escape. Their absence throughout the night seemed to suggest this to be the case.

Riker’s eyes were barely open, but he could already hear the yells and jeers of the passing crowd. Even on a planet like Maas, the crowds of pre-warp cultures during executions were the same; joyous yet violent crowds cheered and booed the prisoners on their way to the scaffolds, thronging the streets and crowding the carriage as they hurled rotten fruit and refuse and spat at the cart’s general direction. The commander’s vision became hazy, the baying crowd around him gradually fading into the periphery.

In the remaining minutes before his execution, Riker wearily closed his eyes for one last rest; a penultimate dip into the water before the final, brief but painful dive into an ocean of eternal slumber. Spent from the hours of overexertion and torture, the soothing calm of oblivion beckoned as darkness took him once more, snatching him from the fog, clouds, and smoke and screams and shouts of the early morning and dropping him into something pure, silent, and still.

Riker dreamt of stars dotting the infinite beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh.
> 
> Somewhere between the drafting and editing stages, the Elide and Lorcan scene somehow ended up becoming a Starco [one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27395968). Feel free to check it out, but I’m keeping the old one here.
> 
> We’re almost near the end!
> 
> Up next: Burn the Witch


End file.
